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Camp Raven, The Green Zone, Baghdad
The next day

Camille's stomach churned and she chomped down on more antacid tablets. The chalky things even tasted pink. She swirled chamomile tea in her mouth to kill the taste, but the combo was even worse. Last night was a blur. She was certain Pete had escorted her back into the trailer and that she had fallen asleep in her clothes, but she awoke in a night gown—the negligee she had bought to meet Hunter in Dubai and had never worn. She didn't want to ask Pete. It was too strange and she didn't want to know.

She was now a refugee from the bright Iraqi sun, holed up in her trailer, waiting and recovering. Over and over she kept telling herself she had to rest up as much as she could so she'd be ready when the moment came. She popped more aspirin and pounded water, downing an entire bottle at a time. Across the compound in the operations bunker, Iggy and his staff were studying whatever information they could find about Rubicon's detention centers and drawing up assault plans for each of them. In addition to small holding facilities at all of their installations, Rubicon ran several prisons throughout Iraq, including the new prison at Camp Cropper and the older facility at Abu Ghraib. Even though the Abu Ghraib complex had been turned over to Iraqi control, Rubicon continued to run one of the five prisons in the compound on the American taxpayer's dime.

Black Management was still in the process of building up its intelligence capabilities, so it outsourced part of the search for Hunter. Her spooks were coordinating with AegeanA, a British firm, to purchase signals intelligence on Rubicon's Iraq operations and they were also working with the American agencies, Diligence and Lyon Group, to see if they had any assets on the inside at Rubicon that could be purchased.

 

Camille opened one of the forged files and admired the quality workmanship. The more she thought about it, the more the call to the vet disturbed her. Last night she had been too drunk to have grasped the full picture, but it was starting to sink in and it scared her. It was the craftsmanship in the cover identity that was so upsetting. It took so many resources and such expertise to create and maintain a fictional paper trail like that. She only knew of a few instances in which the Agency had gone as far as issuing a
quasi-personal spouse
to backstop an alias in use overseas. And even then, they had done it only for particularly valuable aliases that they had used and developed over the years.

The Pentagon used aliases like disposable MRE wrappers, its operators longing for that
Mission: Impossible
moment when they could yank off the mask and reveal to the villain not only that he had been duped, but who had done it. Agency spooks were long-term players who were most satisfied when the bad guy died happy and ignorant, having been exploited by the same deception most of his life. The approach was the difference between checkers and chess, the Boy Scouts and the mafia. Deep down, Hunter was an Eagle Scout, but whoever had crafted his cover was at heart a criminal conspirator. She saw invisible fingerprints all over it, but not from the CIA. The Agency didn't create sophisticated aliases in-house anymore, but outsourced them to a boutique firm called Abraxas.

Someone had a strong desire to deceive her, one that was backed up with a serious budget. She knew only one person who would go to such lengths. And it was the same man who had tried to convince her to kill Hunter using all of the alias garbage—her old mentor at the CIA, Joe Chronister. Joe had taken the Pentagon's lame alias and handed it over to skilled hands at Abraxas so they could spin the yarn of Greg Bolton and Julia Lewis into a tale which could be used to incite her to kill Hunter. She had no idea as to why, but it was becoming clear to her that the CIA wanted Hunter Stone dead and they wanted it to look like a crime of passion.

 

Even though it was midafternoon, Camille felt so hungover from both alcohol and her tears, she decided to sleep it off. The day was so hot, the trailer's supersized air conditioner could barely keep up with the desert sun and it was warmer than usual inside. The lacy nightgown she'd woken up in was the coolest thing she had, so she slipped back into it, then grabbed her USP Tactical, checked the safety lever and stuck it between the sofa cushions.

As she squeezed the excess liquid from a pair of used chamomile tea bags, her mind was racing, but the pieces weren't coming together. The best she could figure was that Hunter must have stumbled across something going on between Rubicon and the Agency they didn't want her or Force Zulu finding out. They wanted Hunter dead, but the CIA couldn't murder one of the Pentagon's spies without all hell breaking loose and the Pentagon immediately investigating Rubicon and uncovering CIA secrets. So Joe Chronister, who knew her so well, thought he could manipulate her into hating Hunter so much that she would kill him out of rage, providing his death with the story they needed to satisfy Zulu investigators. Zulu would attribute it to a crime of passion and they would never realize that the CIA had killed one of theirs. She stretched out on the sofa, covering her swollen eyes with the tea bags.

Thoughts of the Agency kept coming back into her head. She sure didn't want to risk the several hundred millions of dollars of work they secretly funneled her way through contracts with the State Department, General Services Administration and even the Department of Interior, the guys who ran the National Parks—if they only knew. The CIA had friends in the military and all of her operators had worked closely with the Agency on one project or another. Providing employment to CIA non-official cover case officers as part of their aliases was a standard industry courtesy and at any time nearly a half-dozen Agency NOCs were attached to Black Management and many more Black Management employees were green badgers, former CIA staff leased back to the Agency at a nice profit. Even after the function of providing cover aliases to NOC case officers was outsourced to Abraxas, Black Management continued to participate in the program, cooperation which she would now be reevaluating and talking to Hollis about. When it came to the CIA, Black Management was completely compromised. She could only really trust the handful of people with strong personal loyalties toward her. Without removing the tea bags from her eyes, she felt around on the coffee table for the phone and punched in Pete's number.

“This is Camille. There's an operator named G
ENGHIS
who works for us out of Camp Tornado Point. Locate him and tell him to bring his gear. I have a job for him.”

“Will do.”

She yawned as she set down the phone. The chamomile was starting to make her eyes feel better. She finally fell asleep, worrying about the CIA, thinking of Hunter and praying he was still alive.

Camp Raven, the Green Zone, Baghdad

Camille was jolted awake by the sense that someone else was in the room. She pretended to be sleeping while her hand inched toward the sidearm stashed between the cushions. The damn tea bags were still on her eyes, so she couldn't even take a quick peek without tipping off the intruder that she was conscious. Listening intently, she thought she heard someone breathing, then the air conditioner kicked on and masked everything. Her hand felt for the pistol's plastic handle.

She drew the gun, aiming at the last location of the breathing sounds. The tea bags flew away from her face.

A man was sitting across from her, looking at her.

“I could've filled your bed with lead—or something else.” G
ENGHIS
shook his head as he turned on a lamp.

“And I could've shot you. I still can. What the hell are you doing in here?”

“I got word the boss-lady herself wanted me. So here I am, sweetie.” He held his arms out and smiled, showing off his tobacco-stained teeth. “And you really should do something about the alarm system on your trailer. Piece of crap.”

Camille sat up and glanced at the clock. She had napped for nearly six hours.

“You pick up that little number just for me?” G
ENGHIS
said.

Camille remembered she was wearing the silly negligee. “You could be a gentleman and walk over there and grab me a sweatshirt and sweatpants.”

“Could be, but I'm not. I like what I'm seeing. Like it a lot.” He squinted as he smiled. Crow's feet etched deeper into his tanned face. He looked almost Mongolian, like his namesake, and Camille guessed he had a lot of Indian blood. “I hear the last man alone in this trailer with you ended up running for his life, buck naked.”

“What are you doing working for me since you obviously don't have a very high opinion of women?”

“I love girls. Nothing sexier than a goodlooking chick who's packing.”

“Enough bullshit. Why aren't you working for boys you respect over at Triple Canopy or Blackwater?”

“Seriously?” He stood and walked toward the built-in closet. “Is this where I'll find your sweats?”

“Yeah, second shelf down. How's your ass, by the way?”

“Sore, but nothing that'll slow me down. Want to see the stitches?” G
ENGHIS
tossed her the clothes.

“Pass.” She slipped on the black sweatshirt, pulled it down as low as she could, then put on the sweatpants with some modesty. “Thanks. So, seriously. Why are you working for me? We all pay about the same, though I like to think I have the best operators and best war gear.”

“The top operators are split between you and Triple Canopy—Blackwater, too, to an extent, though you have a slight edge. Iggy pulls in a lot of them and the mystique of Camille Black lures the rest.”

“Something tells me you haven't fallen for the je ne sais quois of Camille Black since you probably remember her in diapers.” G
ENGHIS
and some of the older troops knew her real identity because of her father, but as true operators, they were silent professionals.

“Don't underestimate yourself. I've seen you in action. You're good. You still have a lot to learn, but you're young.” He walked over to the door, opened it and spat tobacco juice. “Skoal's a nasty habit.”

“You want something to drink?”

“I don't drink when I'm working and I think I'm working right now.”

“I have sparkling water, some fruit juices, tonic water.” Camille opened the fridge.

“Plain water.”

Camille handed him a bottle and took one for herself. He didn't seem like the kind of guy who needed a glass and ice. “Answer my question. Why are you working for me?”

The expression on G
ENGHIS
' face suddenly became serious and he sat there for a few moments looking at her before speaking. “Charlie Hawkins was the best warrior I ever met. He saved my ass in places I don't remember. No matter what I said a couple of days ago, I know he raised his little Stella to be one of us. The military won't let women do this kind of black work, but I figured I'd give you shot. I owe it to Charlie.”

“I vaguely remember you and dad arguing about his work for the Agency.” The truth was that she barely remembered him, but she wanted to probe his attitude toward the Agency to convince herself one last time he wasn't the mole.

“We might've. I'm a soldier. There's no love lost between me and the OGA. What's it to you?”

“You ever consider working for them?”

“No.”

“Come on, every man has his price. What would it take for you?”

“You trying to recruit me? If you are, pull off that sweatshirt because you'd have a lot better shot in that little clingy number. I don't want money. I have all I need. All I care about is staying in the game.” He opened the water and drank the entire liter bottle without a pause, then crossed his arms and looked her in the eyes. “It's been fun playing around with you, but I'm getting bored. What's this interview all about? What do you want?”

“Someone to watch my back.”

“Consider that pretty ass covered.” He pinched a fresh wad of chewing tobacco and stuck it in his cheek. “You seem like a gal who likes to take care of herself, whether it's a good idea or not. Someone threatening you?”

“I don't know where this is all going, but I need someone I can count on at my side when it's time to play ball. The only ones I can really trust are Iggy and Pete. Iggy I need running the show and Pete's not an operator.”

“Iggy's a good man. I'd trust him with the lives of my children.”

Someone knocked on the trailer door. G
ENGHIS
drew a SOCOM pistol and aimed at the entrance.

Pete stepped inside.

“You chicken shit, put that thing down,” Pete said, then turned toward Camille before G
ENGHIS
lowered his gun. “We know where he is. Abu Ghraib. The Rubicon compound.”

“We have men in and out of there all the time,” Camille said.

“Is the intel good?” G
ENGHIS
said, chewing a pinch of tobacco.

“Iggy and Virgil actually agree on something. Both say it's actionable. The problem's going to be deciding which one of the Rubicon snitches gets the million bucks. We nearly had them lining up outside the front gate.”