Boswell’s voice was pompous, New England, nasal. “How dare you force me to change the venue of our meeting? You should be grateful I don’t have you arrested after that little charade.”
He lifted his chin slightly to emphasize certain words. The result was less than impressive, since the chin held all the strength of a china doll. “And don’t try to tell me about a bomb threat. This is Baghdad. There’s always a bomb threat.”
Boswell did not offer Marc a chair. Marc gave the man nothing in reply.
“If you’d been around at all, you’d know you live with threats. You get on with the job. Which brings us to the reason for this meeting.” Boswell planted a narrow elbow on his desk and aimed a finger at Marc. “You have no idea what is happening on the ground here. You are hereby ordered to cease and desist. Tell me you hear what I’m saying.”
“Sir,” Marc replied.
“You do not have authorization for such an insane act as attacking a civilian house with only a group of prison guards. You think this is about rescuing some kids? A hundred more will disappear today! What are you going to do, rescue them too? Stay around and become a one-man kiddy patrol?”
Marc maintained his posture. Playing the stone statue. Focusing upon a point at the center of the man’s forehead, a half inch below his receding hairline.
“Your juvenile pranks could have cost us thousands of lives. Try another stunt like that and I will personally crush you.” Boswell rose to his feet. “This is a war zone. You follow orders. You observe and report. That was the remit handed you before you left Washington. That is what you will do. That and nothing more. Tell me you understand.”
“Sir.”
“Get out.”
– – Duboe ushered him through the door and into what had probably once been the palace’s main gallery. He checked Marc front and back, then decided, “You look singed. But no gaping wounds. Knowing Boswell, I’d call that a good day.”
Marc expected to be led back through security and out into another waiting armored carrier. Instead, Duboe pointed him onto a bench by the side wall and sat down next to him. “The Americans who live out where you’ve been operating, the subcontractors and the aide agency types, they call this area the Green Republic.” Duboe’s voice was barely above a whisper. “As in, a world and a law unto itself. Boswell is a perfect example of the Republic’s other face. He and his ilk are out to reshape the world in their own image. It makes for some friction with the Iraqis in power, since the ’Racks have the impression this is their country.”
The hall was high-ceilinged and floored in marble. A few palms rose from giant tubs. Otherwise the space was utterly unadorned. People scurried by in every direction, their footfalls echoing like rain. All the military Marc saw were officers. “Why would the ambassador’s aide consider my investigation so important he has to issue a personal warning?”
“That’s a good question, Royce. Here’s another. How much is the answer worth to you? Because what you’re asking could cost you everything.” Duboe’s dark humor had faded from his voice. “Don’t mistake Boswell for a toothless wimp. He will bust you. He will bust you so bad you’ll have years to weep over all the lost chances.”
“He’s scared about something,” Marc interpreted.
“No, Royce. Boswell is angry. In the space of a few days you’ve threatened to upset his power structure. He wants to send you back. But Walton and his allies have blocked him. He sees that as a temporary setback. If you stick around the Red Zone, Boswell will find a way to take you out without getting his hands dirty.” Duboe gave him a sniper’s inspection, hard and unblinking. “You’re the one who needs to be scared.”
Marc met his gaze. “Alex is still missing. Unless Walton orders me home, I’m staying on the hunt.”
Duboe rose to his feet. “In that case, it’s time for round two.”
– – The U.S. ambassador’s office overlooked an interior garden that in its heyday must have been something to behold. Eight imperial palms poked their fringed fingers fifty feet into the cloudless blue sky. Each tree’s circular plot was trimmed in hand-painted tiles joined to a winding brick path. Marc counted four fountains, only one of which now worked. The flower beds were unkempt, with weeds overwhelming the remaining blossoms. Limbs of miniature trees drooped from their burden of overripe fruit. Brilliantly colored birds flitted about, no doubt perplexed by the disarray.
The ambassador was a well-polished version of the Washington power broker. He wore the requisite pinstriped suit with the same ease as his smile. His gray hair and his gleaming skin and his buffed nails spoke of careful and constant attention to the package. He pointed Marc into the visitor’s seat opposite his desk and said, “You have managed to make some powerful enemies in quite a brief period, Mr. Royce.”
Marc seated himself and saw that Barry had planted himself on the sofa in the room’s far corner. “Does that include you?”
“Oh, no. I try to remain above all that. Someone has to.”
“Will you tell me who is behind my opposition? And why?”
The ambassador swiveled his seat so as to face the rear windows. “Can you imagine any reason why they won’t grant me the use of a couple of troops as gardeners? Our remaining bases are filled to the brim with soldiers doing nothing. We’re caught in a purgatory of our own making. Officially we’re disengaging. Unofficially, if we leave, the government collapses. So our bases remain on high alert. Which means all troops are on active duty. And security claims they can’t properly vet a menial gardener. So I spend my days staring at weeds.”
Marc’s gut told him the ambassador was sending him a message, but he could only come up with, “Your hands are tied.”
The ambassador remained as he was, staring out the back windows. He might have nodded.
“If you can’t tell me who, what about why they are opposed to my being here?”
“That should be apparent even to a novice like you, Mr. Royce. They don’t want these missing people found.”
“But why?”
The ambassador took a pen from his pocket, spinning it between the fingers of one hand. “The Iraqi government is not a government, Mr. Royce. Did you know that?”
Marc clamped down on his impatience. He wanted to shout at the man, remind him that lives were at stake. And friends. Stating the obvious would get him nowhere. “No sir.”
“The justice minister you and your group managed to turn into an ally has officially been out of a job since the election. But no party won a majority, and the Arabs are not skilled in the art of political compromise. So the old government remains in a caretaker status while the newly elected parliament wrangles. Meanwhile, the vital work of state goes undone. I am afraid, as are others both here and in Washington, that Iraq’s nationhood is balanced on a knife’s edge.”
“You’re saying Alex and his group were somehow tied up in this?”
“I have no idea, Mr. Royce. And neither does Barry Duboe.” The ambassador turned around and faced Marc. He was no longer smiling. “What we can tell you is this. There are some powerful people, both here and in Washington, who want you to stop asking your questions.”
Marc found himself liking the man. It was utterly illogical. Anyone who had climbed to the top of the diplomatic ladder was a pro at getting on the right side of people. And no doubt, given the word, he would insert the knife with the same ease as Jordan Boswell. Even so, Marc found himself needing to ask, “Do you also want me to shut up and go away?”
The ambassador’s face tightened in what might have been approval. “I appreciate the question, young man. But I can’t answer you.”
Marc nodded. The man had done precisely that. “I understand.”
“What I can tell you, Mr. Royce, is that it would be a good idea if your Iraqi associate-what is his name?”
Barry Duboe spoke up for the first time. “Sameh el-Jacobi.”
“Yes. Your associate would be well advised to accept my offer.”
“Which is?”
“Four green cards. One for himself, his wife, his niece, and her daughter. I’m told Mr. el-Jacobi has remained a member of the Washington bar. He will be granted introductions to the highest levels of our U.S.-based activities. He could be drowning in well-paid work. His future is limitless.”
