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Ramadi, Anbar Province

After another hour of exploration, Hunter found Khalid's shop in a quiet corner on the edge of the
souk
, near a busy mosque. Bolts of colored fabric were stuffed into the small sales room and color pictures of the latest Middle Eastern fashions snipped from magazines were plastered over every square inch of the walls. The floor was littered with swatches of fabric, pin cushions and even a pair of scissors.

A man yelled a greeting from behind a red cloth curtain, “
Salaam alaikum
.”

“
Alaikum salaam
,” Hunter said and continued in Arabic. “I might have left my wallet here last week. It had a special picture of my daughter, Barika.”

“Was she wearing the wedding dress I sewed for her?” A portly man stepped from behind the curtain. He carried scissors and wore a tape measure around his neck.

“No. The dress was from her aunt in Amman.” Hunter said the final identification phrase as he studied the man's eyes.

He saw fear.

“Come. I've been expecting you.” The man held the curtain open and motioned with his hand.

No one at Force Zulu had yet been alerted that he was coming in. “You've been expecting me?”

The man hesitated for a second longer than Hunter would have liked. “I meant when people leave their wallets in your shop, you expect them to return.” He smiled. Several teeth were missing. “Come and I will locate your wallet for you. My wife will bring you tea and sweets.”

Hunter waited in a sandy courtyard while the midday call to prayer blared from loudspeakers mounted throughout the district. Hunter ignored it as he sat in a plastic chair beside an orange tree, not sure if he should believe Khalid's assurances that his unit would be there any moment to escort him to safety. The agent had been vetted long ago, Hunter reassured himself, but something didn't feel quite right. Sipping tea, he twirled a fallen orange blossom between his fingers until it disintegrated, then he sniffed his fingers and smiled. His tongue checked on his tooth. It moved too easily and he knew it had to be stabilized soon if it was going to be saved. He hoped to be sitting in an American dentist's chair at a base in Baghdad by late afternoon. He wished the Zulu Bushmen would hurry up.

Just as the drone of the muezzin's call to prayer was ending, three Force Zulu operators burst into the courtyard, their guns sweeping the area. He had expected them to come posing as civilians, not wearing full combat gear. Hunter held his hands in the air, aware they would instantly judge him to be an Iraqi and a potential danger because of his man-dress. He'd worked with all of them and was surprised they didn't seem to recognize him.

“S
ABER
T
OOTH.
Coming in from the cold. And it's damn chilly out there.” Hunter laughed.

One operator approached Hunter, two others stayed by the door, their guns trained on him. They were all from his squadron and they should've seen past the Iraqi clothes and his new beard and recognized him by now.

“On the ground, you douche bag.” Stutler kicked Hunter's left foot, knocking him slightly off balance. “Face down.”

“What the hell are you doing? It's me—S
ABER
T
OOTH
.” Hunter dropped to the ground. He knew better than to fight overwhelming force. “I've been deep undercover and my cover was blown. Check with General Smillie at SSB.”

“Smillie is the one who sent us.” Stutler zip-tied Hunter's hands behind his back, then patted him down and found the knife. He ripped the sheath from his leg.

“I'm not offering any resistance. At least leave my feet free so I can walk without falling all over myself. Come on, Scott.”

“No way, man. You could take out Bruce Lee with those legs. I've been on too many missions and in too many bar fights with you.”

“Yeah, I've saved your sorry ass from the bad guys and from your wife more times than you can count.”

“That's why I'm saving yours right now. Everyone else in Zulu wants the honor of killing the only fucker ever to betray the unit to the
muj
.” He shoved the plastic tie under Hunter's ankle, then pulled it tight.

“I would never betray Zulu. Never. Rubicon's framing me. You've got to believe me.”

“Dude, you're the last guy I ever thought would work for al-Zahrani.” Stutler pulled Hunter to his feet.

Hunter shuffled into the tailor shop. A fourth team member waited inside.

“Move, you dumb-fuck” Stutler shoved him.

“Hey, it's hard enough walking in a dress and these zip-ties don't make it any easier.” Hunter stumbled as if he had tripped on his dishdashah and intentionally fell to the ground on top of Khalid's sewing clutter. He rolled over on his back. “You're going to have to help me get up.” He patted the floor until he found the pair of scissors he'd seen on the way in. Cupping them in his hands, he hoped Stutler didn't notice in the exposed moment before the wide sleeves of the dishdashah covered his hands. He had no idea what he was going to do with them, but he had to start expanding his options.

 

Hunter waddled from the tailor shop and looked around for the team's Humvees. He spotted them halfway down the block, on the other side of the street. Logistical nightmares like this were why the soldier in him hated markets, but the spy in him had fallen in love with them all over again. The crowd parted for Stutler's team. Friday prayers had ended and men streamed from the corner mosque. Hunter made eye contact with a young man. He was accustomed to the acidic glares of the Iraqis, but he felt sympathy coming from the guy. Then Hunter understood. They didn't see American soldiers taking away another American; they saw the American occupiers dragging away another Iraqi resistance fighter.

“Keep moving. Don't stop.” Stutler pushed him.

Hunter slowed down and didn't say a word. He knew the team was bound by rules of engagement that were tighter than the plastic ties around his legs. Killing him in an escape attempt was undoubtedly permitted, but they all had been in the sandbox long enough to know better than to shoot a bound Iraqi in the middle of a crowded market. As far as the masses were concerned, Hunter was one of them, another innocent victim of the evil Americans. The old Arab proverb kept running through his mind:
never give advice in a crowd
. Hunter worked the scissors around in his hands to the right angle, then he stopped.

“Move, I said. Now!”

Hunter dropped to his knees, lowered his hands and cut at the plastic tie at his ankles.

“Get up, you asshole.” Stutler grabbed Hunter under the arm and pulled him to his feet.

Hunter shuffled forward as if his legs were still bound. He instinctively turned the scissors so that they pointed toward Stutler, but he knew he couldn't bring himself to stab a fellow Bushman, so he stopped, threw back his head and shouted at the top of his lungs, “
Allahu akbar
!
Allahu akbar
! Allah is great!”

Hunter saw a piece of a brick fly toward Stutler, then a hail of rocks pelted the operators and angry shouts closed in from all directions.

The last thing Hunter saw was a chunk of concrete flying toward his head. It was painted green, the color of the Prophet.

Camp Tornado Point, Anbar Province

Camille opened her mouth, then closed it slowly. Resting her chin on her hands, she stared some more. The betrayal sliced so deep, she didn't know what to believe. Hunter's story had never felt quite right and she had always sensed he was hiding something. She took a deep breath and pursed her lips. “You're telling me Hunter was engaged to someone else when he was engaged to me? I don't know what to say.”

“Say you'll do the job,” Joe Chronister said.

“How do I know this is true?”

“Because of how it resonates. You
know
it's true, Camille. Deep down inside, you know it.”

Chronister gave her another stack of photos. On top was one of Hunter with a woman who looked like she had stepped out of the pages of a Neiman Marcus catalog. The bitch was obviously edgy, high-maintenance and totally out of Hunter's league. She was probably insane, which would make her within his reach, but not his grasp—his favorite type of gal, totally Hunter. “He could never afford a woman like that—not even if his official death had absolved him of alimony and child support.”

“But you know he'd have the hots for a broad like that, don't you?”

Camille tossed the photos onto the desk. “Pictures can be doctored. Give a trained monkey Photoshop and you could be showing me shots of Marilyn Monroe giving him head.”

“Stella—Camille—he faked his death so he could get away from you to be with her. It wasn't cold feet, it was a hot—”

“Stop. Don't say it.” Camille held up her hand and looked away from Chronister so he couldn't see her fighting back tears as she remembered his lame excuses. Hunter had played her for a fool and she let him do it—over and over again.

“But in case you want more evidence, here are some intercepted emails between—”

“Email is the easiest thing in the world to fake. Untrained monkeys can do that.”

Chronister reached back into his attaché and pulled out a thick dossier. He handed it to Camille. “You'll also find copies of several handwritten cards, love notes and letters with his signature.”

Camille flipped through the pages, shaking her head. The handwriting was his. The adoring sticky notes were familiar—too familiar. She slapped it closed and pressed her hands against each side of it.

“I've seen enough.”

“No, you haven't. I still have copies of statements from his joint bank account with her. Three months ago when Rubicon started raiding Black Management job sites, it went from chronically overdrawn to a six-figure surplus.”

Camille threw the folders onto the desk and looked at Chronister. “As I said, I've seen enough. You have my attention. So why isn't the Agency handling this job in-house?”

 

Chronister took a deep breath. He recognized the look on Camille's face and he liked what he saw. Things were progressing better than he had hoped, thanks in no small part to the Marine father-figure who had unknowingly softened Camille up for him. In thirty-two years with the Agency, he had recruited hundreds, maybe even thousands of spies, convincing them to betray their countries for one reason or another. Money. More often than not money made them do it, but sometimes it was for love, other times for revenge. Every once in a while some poor sap gave his country the Judas kiss out of a belief in peace, democracy or the American way. The real art in turning someone into an agent was getting under their skin and figuring out what they needed deep down inside. And he knew exactly what Camille needed. There was something she yearned for from both her father and from him—an apology. They had both pushed her relentlessly and made her promises that she could become something that she would never be allowed to be because of her gender: a Special Forces operator.

The only difference between Chronister and her father was that her father had really believed it could happen for her one day. In the late eighties, after her father had taken her along on a covert mission to Soviet Uzbekistan to clean up some Agency business and he had debriefed them both, Chronister knew he had to have her working for him. He had never seen raw talent like hers. When she was old enough, he had dangled the opportunity to enter the CIA's paramilitary force in front of her to convince her to join the CIA over the Marines, even though he knew a woman didn't have a chance with the Agency's Special Activities Division either.

He glanced at Camille so see if his dramatic pause had gone on long enough. She was starting to look concerned.

“Is something wrong?” Camille said. “I asked you why the Agency isn't handling the hit in-house.”

Chronister took another handful of M&Ms and talked while he chewed them. He took a deep breath and looked directly at her with the most remorseful expression he could muster. “Because I owe you.”

He caught a glint of hope in Camille's eyes.
She wants it.

“What do you mean, you owe me?”

“I'm facing retirement. Things look different when you get older and that lifelong dream of a fishing cabin in Michigan is only a few months away.”

“What are you saying?” Her face softened, but her arms were still crossed.

“I'm saying you start to regret mistakes when you get older. Maybe even want to make things right.”

“It's too late for that.”

“Maybe. Like I said, you were like a daughter, but I shouldn't have protected you. I should've sent you over to Iggy and the Special Activities Division with my blessings. You would've made a damn fine operator for them.” He sighed and shook his head, pretending not to notice the tears he saw welling up in her eyes. “Camille—Stella, forgive me. I'm sorry.”

She turned away for a second and wiped her eyes. It almost felt genuine to him as he got up and hugged her. He cared for her.

He really did.

 

As he hugged her, he thought about how perfectly his plan was falling into place. He had worked too long and hard on S
HANGRI-LA
to allow one of Force Zulu's wannabe spooks come in and fuck it up. The last thing he wanted was the Pentagon muscling in on the project. Convincing Camille Black to take out Stone was the cleanest way to get Zulu off his ass. The Pentagon would write it off as a crime of passion, a lover's spat. No one would suspect the CIA's hand in the murder of a US military spy. It was too bad he could never explain it all to her, because Camille was one person who would really appreciate the genius in his design.

He touched her face and wiped away a tear

Camille pulled away and sat down. “Sorry.” She averted her eyes in shame from the tears. “What's your timeframe?”

“Soon as possible. But it's not a straightforward wet job. We need information from Stone. He's had SERE training from us and the Marines. He's not only been a guest of Saddam without breaking, he was held by the North Koreans for weeks before we bought him out. You've seen his fingernails. The man is not a talker.”

“He'll talk to me. What do you need?”

“Stone is a bit player trafficking arms to al-Zahrani because his wife has high maintenance costs. But he knows who al-Zahrani's main man is inside Rubicon. I need you to extract this information for me, then kill him. You can make it as slow and painful as you want.” Chronister knew the Force Zulu types—they were the über-patriots who teared up when they heard the “Star Spangled Banner.” One of them would never work with al-Zahrani's organization, unless he was doing so under orders, orders that were bringing him too close to S
HANGRI-LA
. He wanted to know Stone's mission, but doubted even Camille could get it out of him.

“You sure you don't want him back alive?”

“Come on. You know how the world works. If an Agency analyst betrays us, US courts try him for treason. If a case officer betrays us, we eliminate him. Stone betrayed us.” Chronister took another handful of candy and ate a green one. “Stone's made a fool of you—more than once. What say you, my dear?”