their public persona is impossible. I mean, I get their social security numbers and tax returns, I even get the position papers Foster and some of the others have written, but everything else is a blank. I can’t even come up with a members list.”

“No connections between them and Mexico City or Pyongyang?”

“Not so far, but I’m working on it, trust me.”

“Anything else on Sandberger and his people on the ground in Baghdad?”

“Aside from the fact that he’s surrounded himself with more muscle than usual, nothing. Except that his contract negotiations with the State Department finished two days ago, but he’s stayed there.”

“He knows I’m coming.”

“Yeah,” Otto said, and he sounded glum. “Go ahead and unpack, then get something good to eat, but you’re leaving everything behind, except for your IDs and Army passes and accreditation cards. Hadid will be picking you up around nine.”

“What about the background files Martinez gave me?”

“They’re all printed on smart paper,” Otto said. “Soon as you leave the hotel, I’ll send a signal and erase the imbedded memory. And once you’re done in Baghdad and on the way back out I’ll erase the rest of your documents.”

“That’ll put me in Hadid’s hands.”

“He’s been risking his life for us for a long time. He’s a good man who’s willing to go back into Iraq even though the Sunnis have a contract on him.”

“What about in Baghdad?”

“That’ll be up to you, Mac,” Otto said. “He’s willing to do anything you want him to do. But he’s putting himself in a tough position.”

“I’ll need him to stay put, out of my way. I’m handling Sandberger myself.”

Check-in went without a hitch; upstairs McGarvey unpacked his things and distributed them around the room and in the bathroom as if he were planning on staying for the four days the room had been booked. He laid the files in plain sight on the desk, and went downstairs to the Fauchon’s of Paris restaurant in the lobby, getting a table near the back but from where he could watch the front entrance.

He was served a good rib eye steak, no beer or wine of course, and when he was finished it was a couple of minutes before nine. As he signed the check a slightly built man, dark eyes and hair and thin mustache, handsome as many Iraqis were, sat down across the table from him.

“Tony, good to see you again,” he said jovially, his English good. “Did you have a pleasant flight over?”

The waiter collected McGarvey’s check. “Would the gentleman care for something?” he asked Hadid.

“A dry martini, straight up, very cold.”

The waiter turned and stalked off.

“He’ll remember you,” McGarvey said.

Hadid smiled. “But not you.” He stuck his hand out. “Khalid Hadid. Are you ready to rumble?”

“Any time,” McGarvey said, and he started to rise but Hadid motioned him back.

“Wait for one hour, then come out. We’ll be in a dark blue Range Rover, soft top.”

“We?”

“Yes, my son Saddam is making the trip with us,” Hadid said, grinning broadly. “His name is a joke, but Hussein thought it was kind of me to name my only boy after him.”

“It was a dangerous game.”

“All life is a danger, Mr. Tony, you of all people should know this. Anyway, my Saddam is sixteen today and this is his first trip. Someone might be expecting you. But not an entire family.”

Before McGarvey could ask another question Hadid turned and headed across the busy grand lobby.

THIRTY-EIGHT

The moment Sandberger found out that McGarvey had landed in Kuwait under the name Tony Watkins, he telephoned Stuart Marston, the U.S. envoy from the State Department he’d worked with on the new contracts. Marston was a player, his father a family friend of Foster’s.

“There’s been a new development. The one we talked about a few days ago. I’ll have to remain here in the city for a day or two, possibly longer.”

“I heard the rumors,” Marston said.

“It’s true, the son of a bitch is coming here gunning for me. But he’s in for a nasty surprise.”

“I don’t know what you’re planning, but you’d better be damned careful if you’re contemplating any sort of gunplay. Right now the situation is relatively calm. Better than it’s been since the beginning. Shooting an American will be dicey.”

“The man’s been accused of treason.”

“But not indicted,” Marston said. “And he was the director of the CIA. Not every president hated him.”

“You tell me, Stu, am I supposed to simply sit on my ass and let the man kill me? It won’t happen. I have people who’ll take care of the situation.”

“I’m not telling you what to do, that’s not my job. All I’m saying is that if you get yourself involved with McGarvey, and the situation goes south — if civilians get in the way and are hurt — Admin’s contracts would be in serious jeopardy.”

The man was an ass licker in Sandberger’s opinion. The only reason he was given a seat, and only on the sidelines, with Foster was because his old man had been a powerful senator from Montana, and his uncle had been one of the biggest cattle ranchers in that state plus Wyoming and Colorado. Money had always been the real raison d’etre in Washington.

But Sandberger forced himself to calm down, putting aside for the moment the incident with McGarvey in Frankfurt. “What do you suggest?” he asked.

“I think we can kill two birds with one stone, if we’re smart about it,” Marston said.

“I’m listening.”

“Do you know Mustafa Kabbani?”

“He’s chief of Baghdad police, but I’ve not had any direct dealings with him. Admin’s contracts have always been with the State Department.”

“From what I’m told McGarvey almost always works alone. So when he shows up here he’ll be armed but on his own. The FBI has a warrant for his arrest, and if the Baghdad police were to take him into custody and let the Bureau transport him back to Washington it’d be a feather in their cap. And a feather in yours for showing restraint.”

“I see your point,” Sandberger said.

“I’ll arrange a meeting for you.”

“When and where,” Sandberger asked without hesitation.

“One hour from now at the Babylon.”

* * *

The Babylon Hotel on the banks of the Tigris River in the Zuweia District was unique in that manager and staff didn’t seem to mind that most of its guests arrived heavily armed. AK-47s were as common as attache cases. And alcohol was served, though usually only in the guest rooms from minibars. But exceptions were made.

Sandberger went straight through the lobby to the patio and pool area that overlooked the river, to where Captain Mustafa Kabbani, drinking beer from a frosted mug, was seated alone at a small table. He was a big barrel-chested man, in his late forties, with thick, salt-and-pepper hair, a large mustache, and long delicate fingers.

He looked up and nodded toward the chair across the table.

“Thanks for agreeing to see me on such short notice,” Sandberger said, sitting down.

“We have mutual friends, and perhaps a problem that will result in a mutual benefit to both of us. What is it that you want? Exactly.”

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