Ambush (Michael Bennett #11)(65)

Plus, there were all kinds of checks in place to prevent American companies from selling to the bad guys.

Selling legally, anyway. Throw away the rules, and anything’s possible.

I inhaled. Exhaled. Gently, I tugged my feet free of Clyde’s bulk and went back to the desk. I set down the beer bottle, leaned against the chair, and nicotined my way through my thoughts.

Then again, the laws hadn’t stopped a lot of people. Flip through the DOJ’s periodic summary of companies and individuals who violated the Arms Export Control Act—required reading for my job—and you’d be astonished by the number of people found guilty of trying to smuggle intelligence and goods to foreign powers. Hundreds, maybe thousands.

And those were just the stupid ones. The ones who got caught.

But that list of felons was a far cry from suggesting that seemingly upright companies like Valor and Vigilant were selling to the bad guys. I picked up Kane’s glossy brochures. Valor remained a black hole outside of their pamphlet. But judging by Vigilant’s expanding real estate and a client list that included nations, the companies appeared to be doing just fine. There was no reason for them to take the kind of risk involved in violating sanctions.

I circled back to James Osborne. A diplomatic posting to Iraq likely meant Baghdad, a mere two hours away from our FOB. If the timing was right, it could mean that Osborne was in-country when CIA agent Richard Dalton was there and during the time Dougie had been sheep-dipped—pulled into covert activity—by the same intelligence agency.

I dropped the remains of the cigarette in the empty bottle, picked up my phone, and called a friend in the State Department.

I’d met Alison Handel in Kuwait before we’d entered Iraq. She was on her way to join the embassy staff in Saddam’s palace, while I was headed to a military base in the middle of the desert. We were the only American women in town for a few hours, and we’d become fast friends over airline bottles of vodka. We’d stayed in touch through career changes and family drama, and now I reached her at her home in Delaware. After the formalities, I told her I was looking for information about James Osborne.

“That low-life, scum-sucking, pecker-headed, bottom-dealing, swindling asshole? Makes me happy I’m not in the business anymore. What do you want to know?”

Asshole. That sounded promising.

“Did James Osborne work in the embassy in Baghdad three years ago?”

“That’s no secret. He worked in DAS.”

The Defense Attaché Service. The men and women in DAS assisted the US ambassador on military matters. They also handled political and military matters within their area of jurisdiction.

Even more promising.

I said, “He travel out of the Green Zone much?”

“Probably. Hold on.” The click of a lighter, then the exhale of smoke came across the miles. “What I remember most about him is that he spent a lot of time entertaining visiting Saudis.”

Grooming future clients, maybe. “Does that fit with the job description?”

“That’s above my pay grade. But whatever Osborne’s deal was at the embassy, he’d made it pretty sweet.”

“What do you mean?”

“For one thing, most of us lived in reconstituted shipping containers. But Osborne had gotten himself ensconced in one of the villas along the river. Downright luxurious. Clearly the man had high-level connections. I used to jog along the Tigris, and I’d see him and a few other staffers on the patio having drinks and cigars. I recognized the Americans he socialized with—three guys whose paths crossed mine now and again, usually at embassy parties. Didn’t know their names. But they and Osborne must have been friends, because none of them worked together.”

“What do you think they were doing?”

“Um, drinking and comparing golf scores? Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. But sometimes . . .” A pause while she drifted off.

“Spill it.”

She cleared her throat. “I’d see them in the Residential Palace now and again, heads together, talking quietly. Not that it was a crime. But something felt off about it. The only other people I ever saw that group with were the Saudis.”

“How do you know they were Saudis?”

“I was in logistics, remember? Somebody always wanted something. Especially when it came to entertaining foreign dignitaries. One of the Saudis was at our embassy quite a bit. He was one of the royals, probably looking to cut his own path, independent of his family. We were contracting out a lot of business back then.”

I thought of the picture of the Saudi prince on Vigilant’s website.

“What else can you tell me? About Osborne, I mean.”

“Oh, he was a smooth operator, that one. Popular with the women. Good looking. Family money. Had that mystique that surrounds anyone you suspect works in intelligence. But way too arrogant for my taste. One of those guys who’d go down with a sinking ship because he’d never actually believe his ship could fail. When a guy like that falls—and I hope to Christ he does—he takes a lot of good people with him.”

Her voice had gone flat.

Ever astute, I said, “There’s something else.”

“Yes. Maybe.”

She fell silent, and I prompted her. “Alison?”

“A friend of mine in the Defense Attaché told me about a weird thing that happened. She was running during her lunch break, going through the residential area. Not the villas where Osborne lived, but the slums. You know about them?”