minutes later he reached a small bank of three-story buildings, the ground floor occupied by retail and the upper floors by apartments. Doyle parked the Jeep curbside, doused the lights and waited. Five minutes passed and Doyle became increasingly nervous. His contact was three minutes late, the man’s apartment sat dark and Doyle was sitting in the open, alone and unarmed. Doyle had decided against carrying weapons on his person, in case soldiers decided to search him.
Five minutes turned to ten and the sinking feeling in his gut continued to deepen as he sat in his vehicle, exposed and waiting. He started to feel as inconspicuous as a man jogging naked through Times Square in New York.
The digital phone resting on the seat next to him trilled once. Keeping his eyes trained on his surroundings, Doyle grabbed the phone and activated it.
“Bonjour.”
“Hey, Frog boy, what’s the word?” Great, it was Stone. Doyle switched to English but maintained his French accent.
“Monsieur Gibbons, how good to hear from you.”
“You get the picture?”
“I have many pictures, but not the one you want.”
“Where the hell is it?”
“I could not find the right subject. Perhaps I was mistaken in my approach?”
A pause. “Maybe. You think you should try again?”
Doyle shrugged as though Stone could see him. “I can take a few more minutes, scan through my images. Perhaps I have something else that might meet with your approval. This picture, it is critical?”
“Damn straight it’s critical. I’ve got a deadline to meet. We need this exclusive picture to make a memorable package. You know what I mean?”
“Of course. But I must tell you, there also are issues with this particular subject. You realize that, don’t you?”
Stone paused, his breath coming in audible, angry rasps at the phone. Doyle imagined Stone’s tiny, ratlike eyes skittering back and forth as he processed the news.
“Okay. That is a problem.”
“Perhaps we should meet for coffee to discuss the issue.”
“Usual place?”
“I look forward to it.”
Stone killed the connection and Doyle deactivated his own phone. He scanned the streets once again, saw no one. A cold fist of fear buried itself in his gut, stole his breath. “The picture” had referred to Brahim Azar, a soldier assigned to Saddam’s security detail. Azar was supposed to give final confirmation about Saddam’s intention to sleep at the royal palace. The plan had been simple—Azar would watch for Doyle’s vehicle and come down to the street when he saw it. If the mission was a go, he’d light a cigarette and then buy a newspaper from a nearby vending box. If not, he’d buy a newspaper and disappear back inside.
As it was, their source was a no-show and Doyle couldn’t help but fear the worst.
Maybe the guy had been conscripted to work late.
Or maybe the mission had been compromised. Regardless, it looked bad. Resting his left hand on the steering wheel, he reached for the ignition key with his right hand.
An engine hummed from behind, growing louder as it closed in on the SUV. He looked up, saw a large vehicle pulling in behind his own, brakes groaning as the heavy vehicle ground to a halt. Doyle muttered a curse as halogen floodlights exploded to life, bathing his SUV with a white glow. Moments later a helicopter hovered overhead, pinning the SUV under a pair of searchlights.
A voice amplified by a loudspeaker boomed from behind. “This is the Republican Guard. Do not attempt to start your vehicle or you will be killed.”
Doyle reached for the best option at hand.
Langley, Virginia, CIA headquarters
“DO YOU THINK the mission’s been compromised?”
“My best source misses an appointment, even though he just has to walk down one flight of stairs,” Jon Stone said. “You do the math, Simmons. He’s been made. We’re compromised.”
“Calm down, Stone,” said David Simmons, a retired Marine officer and mission controller for the Iraq insurgency group. “What does Doyle say about all this?”
“Not sure,” Stone replied. “We just got off the phone a few minutes ago. He’s en route to my position. He was on an unsecured portable phone so we couldn’t talk freely. Besides, who gives a shit what Doyle says? I’m the field commander on this little op, not him.”
Because you’re a damn psycho, Simmons thought. But he said, “At ease. I just wanted to hear his field report since he was at the rendezvous site. Are you getting any other signs that the mission has gone south?”
“One of Riyadh’s crew also failed to show up. Doesn’t answer his phone, either. He may have lost his nerve or he may have turned on us. Hard to know for sure.”
“But you’re checking?”
“Stephen Archer and one of Riyadh’s people are en route now. I expect a report soon.”
“What about the others?”
“Ready to go. They’re just waiting for the word. So what is it?”
“Hang tight. I need to go up a level for this one.”
“I won’t wait long.”
“Ten minutes.”
Killing the connection, Simmons hauled himself to his feet, wincing as he stood erect. Pain seared his midsection, reminding him of the cancer eating away his insides. The oncologist had diagnosed it earlier that month, declared it inoperable. In the best-case scenario, Simmons had two months to live, perhaps three. Within a month, he guessed, he’d be admitted to a hospice where he could quietly wait to die. Setting his jaw, he walked past the banks of computers, the hurried workers that populated the control center. He kept his face stoic as he went. He’d decided to keep his illness a secret as long as he possibly could. If his superiors knew of its extent, he’d probably be put out to pasture within a matter of days. He could sit on the sidelines and watch as someone else within the Agency oversaw Saddam’s downfall; he could watch as they took the credit.
Like hell.
Glass doors hissed as they parted in front of Simmons. He moved quickly down the corridor, stepped into a secure elevator at the end of the hall and within seconds was silently ascending to another level of the CIA’s sprawling complex.
Slipping off his glasses and squeezing his eyes shut, Simmons rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. As he did, his mind wandered to the Gulf War. He’d led a team of Marines into southern Iraq to pinpoint artillery batteries for coalition bombers. Getting past the ersatz soldiers had been easy enough. Most had looked too scared to wipe their nose let alone take on a group of heavily armed Marines, especially a group backed by the thunder and hellfire of coalition fighter jets. Within an hour the group had reached the batteries and prepared to pinpoint them with handheld
