sure to visit the gallery and enjoy this most incredible exhibit - a true time capsule of human history written in clay.’
11
In a wide stance with his winter coat folded over a crooked arm, Agent Thomas Flaherty stood stage-left, patiently waiting for the last fans queued along the auditorium’s main aisle to have Professor Thompson autograph a copy of her latest book,
Flaherty carefully observed how she interacted with her admirers. A self-proclaimed master of character assessment - partly resultant from his undergrad psychology minor at Boston College - Flaherty decided that her endearing charm seemed genuine. No narcissism here. There was an air of innocence and vulnerability about her too, he decided.
Fifteen minutes later, the final fans dallied out from the auditorium and the professor sat back to flex the fingers on her left hand.
Flaherty moved in, saying, ‘And I thought the Middle East was all about oil.’
Brooke smiled courteously.
‘Really enjoyed your lecture,’ Flaherty said. ‘You know your stuff. And you actually make it interesting. Too bad I didn’t have more professors like you when I was at B-C.’
‘Ah, a fellow alumni. What year did you graduate?’
‘A couple years ahead of you. Ninety-five. Took an extra term, but got it done.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘Thanks. Made the parents proud.’
‘I’m sure you did.’
Sensing by her reserved expression that he was flirting with being pegged as creepy, he reached into his pocket for his credentials and skipped to the formal introduction: ‘Special Agent Thomas Flaherty, Global Security Corp.’ He flashed the ID. ‘I know this isn’t the best time, but I need to ask you some questions about your work in Iraq back in 2003.’
‘Let me see that,’ she said, motioning for his ID.
He gave it to her.
Brooke closely studied the laminated card: the data, the agency’s sleek holographic imprint, the not-so- flattering photo of Agent Flaherty before he’d shaved away an unruly goatee. Then she passed it back to him. ‘Never heard of Global Security Corporation.’
He kept it simple by replying, ‘We work for the Department of Defense.’
‘Sounds very official,’ she said. ‘So what can I do for you?’
‘Actually, this might take a while. Maybe I can buy you a coffee in the cafe downstairs?’
‘All right,’ she said. ‘But tea. Green tea.’
12
IRAQ
Jason used his binoculars to survey the approaching military convoy. With all the dust being kicked up, he wondered why they even bothered painting the vehicles in desert camouflage paint.
The lead vehicle was a six-wheeled, twenty-ton behemoth with a V-hull - a Mine Resistant Ambush Protected armoured transport, or MRAP. Affixed to its front end was a huge mine roller that scraped the ground to pre- detonate any pressure-triggered improvised explosive devices, or IEDs, that might be buried in the roadway. To Jason, the apparatus looked more like a colossal paint roller or something that might be used to flatten asphalt. On the MRAP’s roof, he could make out a telescoping optics mast - infrared, heat sensors, the works. He suspected it had been retrofitted with metal detectors and radio frequency jamming equipment too.
Trailing like ducklings behind the MRAP were five flat-bellied Humvees.
He spied the Blackhawk again. Its side doors were open. Besides the pilot and copilot, he spied six marines inside the fuselage.
A conservative tabulation meant that twenty-five to thirty jar-heads would be arriving in the next five minutes. Marines weren’t always keen on cooperating with contractors. But circumstance dictated that a team effort would be critical to getting into that cave … and fast. Play nice, an inner voice told Jason.
‘Hey, Meat,’ Jason called out.
‘Yo.’
‘Print out those pictures, pronto. I need to send Hazo on a field trip.’
‘I’m on it.’
Hazo came over with a nervous look on his face. ‘Field trip?’
‘You know the locals,’ Jason explained. ‘I want you to take those pictures with you, show them around, figure out what those images on the wall can tell us. And I want you to see if anyone knows this woman whose ID we found melted to that door. No way she was here alone.’
Tentative, Hazo nodded. ‘I understand.’
‘Good. And don’t be long. I’m going to need your help here.’
‘But how will I get to the city?’
‘You’ll fly, of course.’ Jason pointed to the chopper.
While the twenty-eight light infantry troops of the 5th Marine Regiment, 1st Division Expeditionary Force, busily pitched camp, Jason convened with Colonel Bryce Crawford in the makeshift Bedouin command tent. Before he set out to brief the colonel on what had transpired, Jason requested Crawford to loan out his chopper for a critical fact-finding mission. It took some convincing, but Jason was a consummate diplomat. Jason then summoned Hazo inside.
‘Make it fast,’ Crawford warned Hazo. ‘No goofing around out there.’
Jason could tell that the forty-something, no-nonsense Texan - nothing but muscle dressed in crisp fatigues and a soft cap - intimidated Hazo. The Kurd cowered from the colonel’s tough, grey eyes and jutting square cleft chin.
‘Yes Colonel,’ Hazo replied sheepishly. ‘I promise to work quickly.’
‘Then why are you still standing here? Get moving!’ Crawford barked.
Jason watched Hazo scramble out from the tent, down the hill to the chopper.
‘A Kurd?’ Crawford grumbled, shaking his head with severe incredulity. ‘You sure he’s on our side, Sergeant?’
‘Hazo’s been thoroughly vetted. We’d be dead in the water without him.’
‘You guys really do march to a different drummer. If he fucks up, it’s on your head, Yaeger. Not mine. Got it?’
Jason nodded.
Crawford pummelled agitatedly to the Blackhawk pilot that the request had been granted.
They watched as the copilot helped Hazo into the fuselage jumpseat and secure his flight helmet. Then the copilot took his place in the cockpit. The rotors wound up and the chopper lifted into the air, spinning sand in its wash.
The colonel frowned as he scanned the inside of the tent. ‘Christ. How long you been living like this?’
‘Six months, give or take.’
‘Shit, cavemen had it better.’
‘We specialize in dirty work,’ Jason subtly reminded him.
‘Don’t play the martyr, Yaeger,’ he warned. ‘We’re all in the trenches in this shithole.’
Jason let the comment roll.
‘So tell me what we’ve got. I see a lot of blood and meat out there. Any of it ours?’
Jason shook his head. ‘No, sir. Four kills on the hill, eight more on the road. Five more holed up in that cave.’ Then he took a breath and dropped the bomb: ‘And we suspect that Fahim Al-Zahrani is in there with them.’
Crawford’s eyebrows tipped up. ‘Is that right,’ he said with a sardonic grin. ‘You expect me to believe that?’
