Caravan of Thieves (22 page)

Jessica spoke: “Maybe the general…” I looked up in time to see McColl give her an odd look that made her change course. “Treasury Agent Shaw and Colonel Gladden and the MPs have traveled to Tucson. We wonder what the reason is for that. Would you know?”

“I told them to.”

“I’m having a hard time trusting you, Rollie.” McColl thought he found the crux of the matter. I was relieved that the meal and the presence of his wife had not sped up his mind.

“If you have trust issues, work them out elsewhere. I keep telling you the truth, which is more than I can say for you.”

McColl was flummoxed. He knew how to give orders and how to get rid of people who didn’t follow them without question. Everything else was beyond him. Jessica stepped in. “The money isn’t ours to give. But because of the trouble you’ve experienced, a small payment could be made. Say fifty thousand dollars. That’s part yours and part Shannon’s. I think when we’ve shown you what you have the opportunity to be part of, you’ll think less about money. As for dealing with Colonel Gladden and the MPs, I think the role envisioned for you involves staying in the Marines until
the end of your current enlistment. Gladden might not believe your story entirely, but he has superior officers whom he must obey. And he will. They are with us. You might have to spend a little time in the brig, but no formal charges will be filed and you’ll be released. We’re sure of that. As for the Treasury, I wish you hadn’t told the agent that you found the money. You’ll just have to convince him you were wrong. The Marines will want you back and that will end your involvement as far as the Treasury is concerned.”

I know McColl couldn’t have worked all that out, so Jessica was the brains. It all fit nicely: easy promises for a dead man. I told her I wanted a hundred thousand dollars, and we settled on seventy-five thousand. Jessica did the agreeing and made it look as if she were asking for McColl’s approval. When we finished that part, she reminded him it was time to give me the grand tour of the place and to explain the mission.

Blondie and Toothless leaned back against the corral when we came out of the house: rustlers in fatigues. They tensed up and scrutinized us, wondering if they could kill me now or if they would have to wait. Their disappointment only brought a shrug. They’d still be hungry tomorrow. I looked back and saw Jessica framed in the doorway.

McColl showed me the new stable and introduced me to the three horses they currently owned. “Shame we won’t have time. Blue here is a great ride.” Beyond the stable was a warehouse with a satellite dish on the roof. On the way there he started his story. “Some forward-looking officers in the Army, Marines, and Air Force got together during the early days of Operation Iraqi Freedom. It was clear that politics would trump good sense. It was clear that our country would gain very little from this massive effort.
The Iraqis had problems we could not solve and the cost of trying was going to be prohibitive. Also, it was extremely doubtful that they would ever be reliable allies for us. We could never depend on their oil. And we would never be repaid for liberating them from the tyrant. We saw that it would take years for the worst of the fighting to end. The political bickering would continue far into the future. But eventually, the U.S. would draw down the combat troops, leaving only a support force. At that point, Iraq would be up for grabs. We don’t want to let it fall to our enemies, or another tyrant.”

“You’re planning on taking over Iraq?”

He hit some numbers on a keypad and the door clicked open. I followed him inside. At this point I was expecting tanks and Stinger missiles, but the big main section was almost vacant: two forklifts, four stacks of pallets about eight feet high, and three jeeps. A small living room section was set up against a wall about midway across the space with two couches and a large TV and a refrigerator.

“Iraq is a made-up country. Made up after World War One. We don’t see any need to continue that construct. It would take another dictator, a brutal dictator, to keep it going. Iraq is a ninety-year blip on history’s radar, a failed experiment. One area in particular is eager to separate from the rest of the country: the northern provinces where the people are Kurdish. They were brutalized into submission under Saddam and have little loyalty to the larger entity. And they have the oil fields to be self-supporting. They can pump two hundred fifty thousand barrels a day easily and we think there’s plenty more. We believe that with a little help, this area can achieve independence and become a useful ally to the United States.” His
stride lengthened and his chest puffed out as he talked about it. He needed this moment. Probably the long wait was getting to him. Killing Dan and chasing me made him itch for more action. He wanted his role acknowledged.

The far end of the warehouse was closed off. McColl tapped in some more numbers and we entered a large room with five computer screens on desks set around the perimeter. A huge map of Iraq hung across the back wall with an outline of the targeted provinces: Dahuk, Ninawa, Arbil, Kirkuk, As Sulaymaniyah, Diyala. On a table in the middle was a relief diorama of the territories McColl and the farseeing men dreamed of conquering.

Two technicians worked at computers. McColl stood behind one of them, a heavy man at least fifty years old. “Where’s Gladden tonight?”

The technician brought up a map and zoomed in on a blinking spot. “It’s a Best Western motel in Tucson,” he said.

“And Agent Shaw?”

The technician went through the same routine. He smiled when he said, “He’s at a Best Western just three miles from Colonel Gladden.”

“This is just one of my western command centers. We have access to every database, every database in existence. Here…” McColl went to the computer terminal in the middle, the one with the largest screen. He stood over the keyboard, typed a little, and my military records came up. My status was listed as “Temporary assignment, liaison Treasury Department.”

“If I want to, I can make changes,” McColl said.

“Can you make me a colonel?”

He logged out and moved to the diorama. “We knew we would need seed money, and the funds that Saddam had stolen fit our needs perfectly. We arranged a shipment and storage method that would last until our moment came. Our group is ready. The time is fast approaching for action. That’s why we started to retrieve the money.”

“Twenty-five million won’t go very far.”

“You’re right.” His chest was heaving with pride now and his blue eyes were twinkling. I was afraid he was going to burst into song. “We have five more stashes just like it around the country. And we have other resources. And immediately upon taking over we will be repaid out of oil revenues. We’ve been planning this for years.”

“How will you transport the oil?”

“Pipeline. There’s one through Turkey—”

“They won’t like a Kurdish country on their border.”

“—and one through Syria.”

I was elated by the insanity of it all. And the stupidity. The marvels Dan would have worked with this setup danced across the screens. They had missed their big chance when they killed him. In the field of divide and conquer, misappropriation of precious resources, and criminal land grabs, Dan was a rare and special natural resource, worth much more than twenty-five million to them. And I doubt he would have needed that much to have gained the entire region and left the rest of the country thanking him, at least for a little while. The Republic of Danistan. Too bad.

I reached into my back pocket and retrieved a scrap of paper and handed it to McColl. He read the numbers on it. “Coordinates?”

“Yes.”

McColl read the note to himself, then read it again out loud: “
You thought you could skip out on me. But now I have ditched you for a long time to come.
”

“It’s my father’s way of saying he left me money.” I had written it last night.

“Where did you find it?”

“I went back to the river where the houseboat was. I hadn’t seen him much the last few years. Figured that was one place I knew he had been. If there was going to be a clue, that would be a good place to look. He had buried the note in the sand against the rock wall. Marked the spot with a circle on the rocks. It was something he showed me when I was a kid. I looked on a map. The coordinates are for a cave he used to take me to. He liked to explore caves.”

McColl and I stared at each other for a long moment. I could see him trying to decide what to say. This was taking too long. All that was important was that he bought the story.

I said, “What role do you see for me?”

“I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot, Lieutenant. You’re just the kind of man we have been looking for. With your gift for languages and ability to go undercover, we see you transferred to Iraq and stationed near Kirkuk. From there, you’ll be able to operate in advance of the event. We have allies there but it would be a big help to know which are most trustworthy. We’ve been aware of you for some time, Lieutenant. The undercover mission in Afghanistan was a test and you passed. You’re in the right place now.”

McColl didn’t come out and claim Captain Ballard was part of his group and I couldn’t imagine he was. If that mission was a test,
it had to be in the sense that someone in the group became aware of it and kept an eye on it for recruiting purposes.

I did not like the notion of secret tests. I liked having the option to decide to fail. Failure was not an option for this bunch; it was destiny.

Traffic—no, not traffic. Traffic moves. Eight lanes of cars, trucks and tuk-tuks and motor bikes, engines running, drivers sweating, swearing, singing along to the radio, talking on cell phones, shrugging shoulders, shaking heads, edging each other out for a five-foot advantage. Kabul. Not a war zone but an occupied city. It was easier to walk to the NATO headquarters than to ride. But when I got there, I realized I did not want to go inside. I didn’t want to change out of my Afghan identity or explain myself to the guards. Distrust swirled in front of me like a wraith. I walked close to the barriers and watched the soldiers watching me suspiciously, and as I prepared my explanations of why I should be admitted, I kept being delayed by the thought that I suspected them, too. My instinct was to stride forward and toy with their paranoia, then vaporize it, but the closer I got, the slower I went. Like forces repel; my paranoia met theirs, and the force field became impenetrable.

I retreated to a shop and bought a phone and called Major
Jenkins. He came to the shop and I made him wait while I watched for followers, his or mine. Every place I thought of where we could meet was either too public or too private until I remembered the one place where no one paid any attention to the surrounding crowd.

The Soviet Cultural Center looked like it should: a bombed-out shell that resembled what a ’70s-era Phoenix apartment complex would look like if gangs had Stinger missiles. Afghan culture had taken over; the chefs were tasting their own creation: opium. Enough interior walls remained to give the place the feel of a maze, a sort of cherry of confusion on top of the despair sucked up in blue smoke. I stared at Jenkins outside the remnants of the fence long enough for him to finally recognize me, then let him follow me inside. In the land of a zillion rugs, almost everyone sat on the bumpy dirt floor. If they noticed us, we were only a distraction from the thin, ungraspable wisps that always vanished too soon, like satisfaction. We made our way to the eastern section, where the morning light came in through the windows and shell holes, driving the inhabitants away.

Jenkins was not as uncomfortable as I was hoping he would be.

“Captain Ballard is dead,” I said. If it bothered him, he hid it well. He listened patiently for the rest. I told him some of what I knew and that I had decided to carry on the mission. I expected a reprimand. Part of me even wanted it.

“Have you met the sellers?”

“No.” I liked Jenkins, but everyone’s first thought is how to survive. Maybe he knew Junior, too. Maybe he knew the general.

“The deal is set for the day after tomorrow, fifteen hundred
hours, outside of Jalalabad. Get me a GPS for my truck. You can station people in the hills with cameras. And you can block the road back. Pick them up.”

“I can get you the money in a few hours and the GPS. But to get the support, we’ll have to go upstairs. I’ll try for choppers after you give the signal that the deal is done.”

“Who is upstairs?”

“Army CID.”

My heart sank. Army CID might be good at arresting soldiers who get drunk and out of line, or go AWOL, or even those who get trigger-happy, but keeping secrets was not something they knew about. They knew about paperwork and procedure. And I knew there was no way around this. Jenkins had spoken it, so it was going to happen. “I won’t meet with them.” It was the most I could hope for.

“They won’t come here anyway,” Jenkins said.

“They wouldn’t be allowed in.”

The next afternoon, Jenkins drove his jeep past the back side of NATO headquarters and I jumped in. The road was clear and we were on the outskirts of town in twenty minutes. He handed me a thick envelope of money. I counted out ninety thousand dollars.

“We’ll collect the difference afterward,” he said. “You might have contingencies. When the transaction is complete, you signal the spotters by giving a thumbs-up to the sellers.”

“Will there be spotters?”

“We got the okay.”

“Good, but no thumbs-up. These guys are not selling to a Marine, they’re selling to an Afghan. If the spotters can see my thumb, they can see that the transaction has gone down.”

“Calm down.”

“Ballard was calm. I didn’t see it happen, but I’m pretty sure the people I’m doing business with killed him. They’ll be standing behind me. The people standing in front of me are U.S. military traitors. I’m gonna take a wild guess that they might consider just ripping me off and leaving my body in the road. I’m the meat in the sandwich. Now I’ve got to rely on the timing and the subtlety of CID. Are you going to be there?”

His mouth turned down and he looked all around, everywhere but at me, before he answered. “I’m a desk man. I have other operations I’m running. We didn’t start out to…This wasn’t the mission.” He was ashamed because he knew how asinine he sounded.