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….”
Kassem abruptly half-stood, his body shaking in anger, and waved his arms around the tiny room. “This is my country!” he shouted. “Do you honestly believe that we are that weak? That we could not get rid of you if it suited us?”
The man’s tirade confirmed what Kealey already knew: that at some point in his dealings with the Agency, Arshad Kassem had stepped over the line. Way over the line. “I know that we didn’t have to drop a bomb next to your house,” he said quietly. “That tells me more than all of your bullshit.”
Kassem stopped moving. He stared at Kealey, openmouthed, for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, he sat back down, and when he spoke, his words were very soft.
“I think I’d like to be paid now.”
CHAPTER 6
FALLUJAH
“What the hell is he doing?” Walland hissed, directing the question to Paul Owen over his MBITR handheld radio. Kealey’s transmission was coming over the SINCGARS unit mounted to the dashboard; he could hear the rapidly deteriorating conversation through the sliding rear window of the Tacoma.
“I have no idea,” was the Delta officer’s strained reply. “It sounds like he’s baiting him.” There was a rush of static, then, “We’re turning around. This looks like it’s going to shit…I want to be able to get out of here in a hurry.”
“I hear that. I’ll cover the guards while you move.”
“Roger that.”
Walland resumed watching the two guards, his M4A1 across his chest, muzzle depressed. He couldn’t point the rifle directly at the guards without starting an unnecessary gunfight. At the same time, his stance allowed him to bring the weapon to bear in an instant if the need arose.
It happened just as Kealey said it would. The guard on the right lifted a radio to his lips the moment Owen’s vehicle started to roll, and it didn’t fall to his side until the Tacoma had completed its three-point turn. The other pickup followed suit so that all three of the trucks were facing north, back toward the train station.
Walland lifted his handset. “Did you see that?”
“Yeah, I saw it. I’m squelching Kealey’s radio. Let’s hope he plays it smart.”
The tension in the room was almost unbearable. For Kealey, the silence amplified everything else: the hatred in the eyes of Arshad Kassem, the particles of dust dancing in the hazy light, the nervous twitch of the one guard in his field of vision. The older man was staring at him expectantly.
“I want my money.”
Kealey shook his head and said, “We’re not through yet.” With the guard watching his every movement, he slowly pulled a thin folder from the pack at his feet. At the same time, he checked to make sure that his radio was still transmitting. He tossed the file onto the table. “These are wire records, Arshad. Your records, traced back to the Allied Bank in Beirut. It looks like you’re doing pretty well these days. Accounts in Luxembourg, Switzerland, and the Central Bank in the Dutch Antilles. What are you looking at, total? Five, six million dollars?”
Kealey’s face grew suddenly hard. “Six million. Where the fuck did that money come from? We’ve paid you seven hundred thousand over two years.”
“That is not your concern. It is a separate business arrangement…a separate client.”
“A separate business arrangement?” Kealey’s expression made it clear what he thought of this argument. “How does this ‘client’ feel about your dealings with the Central Intelligence Agency?”
The Iraqi smirked in response. This was not what Kealey had expected, but before he could recover, his radio emitted two short beeps.
Kassem didn’t seem to notice. “You shouldn’t have come here,” he said quietly. He spread his hands over the table and stared hard at the younger man. “This was supposed to be simple. You have no idea what you’re getting into. Now give me my money, and get the fuck out of my city.”
Kealey met his cold, unflinching gaze for a long moment. Then he reached down for the pack, his eyes never leaving those of the Sunni warlord.
Walland was now watching the guards with greater interest. The more he heard of the conversation between Kealey and Kassem, the easier it became to think of the two men in front of the building as potential targets. He didn’t know what Kealey was doing, but one thing was becoming increasingly obvious: Arshad Kassem did not have the best interests of the United States at heart.
It was the risk they took. To get things done in a place like Iraq, the Agency was forced to deal with some of the worst people on the planet. Not all of the bets turned out to be good, but Walland knew the meeting could still be salvaged. All Kealey had to do was stop talking and pay the man. They would pass the word on Kassem up the line, and then…well, it didn’t really matter what then. Fortunately, those decisions were made by somebody much higher on the food chain.
He reached up and wiped a film of sweat from his face. The sun was barely over the horizon, but the temperature was already climbing rapidly. His eyes drifted over to the cooler. He remembered what Kealey had said. I’m going to get some water. Just sit tight.
Still cradling the M4 in the crook of his right arm, Walland leaned over and flipped off the lid. What he saw turned his spine to ice.
There was nothing to drink in the small compartment. All he saw was money. Stacks of hundred-dollar bills, neatly wrapped in plastic. Walland didn’t know how much he was looking at, but he knew exactly where it was supposed to be. More importantly, he knew what Kealey was about to do.
He grabbed for the radio and pressed the transmit button. “Colonel, I think we have a