Ambush (Michael Bennett #11)(66)

“The Green Zone has slums?”

“It’s where a bunch of locals took up residence after Saddam’s forces fled. They never caused any trouble, and we never evicted them. Going there wasn’t exactly unsafe, but my friend said it did tend to keep her on her toes, which she liked. Bit of an adrenaline junkie. Anyway, she told me that one day she saw Osborne there with another man, someone she hadn’t seen before. The two were standing in a doorway, as if they were about to part. When my friend spotted them, she ducked behind a car. She said she didn’t know why. The whole thing just seemed odd enough that she decided it was better if they didn’t see her. She caught part of their conversation. Not any specific words. Just their voices. They were speaking Farsi.”

“Farsi? This guy with Osborne was Iranian?”

“Maybe. Don’t read too much into it. He could have been Iranian American, maybe a civilian contractor.”

“Or he could have been in Iraq to help out the Shia militias. You know Iran was backing those guys.”

“If that were true,” Alison said, “he’d never have gotten into the Green Zone.”

“Then why speak in Farsi?”

“A way to have privacy while among the Arabs, maybe? Of course, we were cutting deals with the Shia militias back then, so when my friend told me about it, I guess I wasn’t totally surprised. This man could have been a go-between. He wouldn’t have been one of the guys on the wanted posters, but he could have been lower level.”

“She ever see him again?”

“Nope.”

“Interesting.” The Iranian connection sent my mind to Zarif, hiding Malik all the way down in Mexico. “You think you can get me the names of the staffers Osborne hung out with?”

“I’m not in the biz anymore, remember? I’ll ask around, but people don’t tend to talk to those who aren’t on the inside.”

“Whatever you can find. And thanks. You’ve been a help.”

“Always ready to do my part for the free world. I find those names, I’ll let you know.”

We chatted a few more minutes, then hung up. I returned to my place at the window. The headache sent up a last flare, then faded to a dull ache under the influence of the pills.

So okay. As Kane had already checked, Osborne had been in Iraq at the right time. That bit of intel had value only as a strategy to narrow my list of potential Alphas from one to . . . well, one. But a lot of people had been in-country during that time. Not all of them got villas, but some did. Any number of people could have worked to cover up the arrival of the weapons or arranged for the murders of Haifa and Resenko.

Then again . . .

Probably not too many were holing up for furtive talks with staffers in unrelated departments. Or carrying out secret meetings with Iranians in the slum area where they were unlikely to be spotted.

Did Valor/Vigilant have an arrangement with Iran?

That would be treason. The kind of treason worth killing people to hide.

The hair on the back of my neck rose.

A song from the jukebox filtered through the door—a Frank Stallone song about things being far from over. I reached for the second beer, and realized that it, along with the chili, the tortillas, and the first beer were history. Mindless eating and drinking. I looked at the clock display on my computer and was startled to realize I’d been at this for a couple of hours.

I was halfway through my designated time, and all I had was a weak theory and zero proof.

That much had gotten Kane killed.





CHAPTER 18

The problem with trauma is that it opens up a world of the possible you wish you’d never known about. Once you know that trash conceals IEDs or homes burn down, or friends die young—once you know these things, you cannot unknow them. And that’s when you realize we’re just fish in a barrel.

—Sydney Parnell. Personal journal.

The Dark Web is the underbelly of the internet. It’s the home of illicit marketplaces, activist chat rooms, and in its darkest iterations, a place to indulge your worst vices. I was just setting up Tor Browser to hide my IP address—a requirement for Dark Web access—when my phone buzzed.

Ryan Taft with the RTD.

I answered with, “Any news?”

“I got a definite maybe on an avatar for the killer.”

“You’re a king among men. Tell me.”

“We actually got a lot of definite maybes. Like you and I talked about, it is conceivably possible to disguise your walk, but there are certain consistencies we can hone in on once we remove other factors. With any luck, I should be able to get a shortened list to you in under an hour.”

“There’s a place in heaven for you, Ryan.”

He laughed. “From your lips to God’s ear. In the meantime, I just emailed you some information on the five people on the platform, the ones Kane might have been looking at. I’ll be back in touch soon.”

We disconnected, and I clicked on Taft’s email. As promised, he’d highlighted five names. Three men and two women, along with their ages, addresses, and the fact that none of them had a criminal record.

I stared at the list, hoping for a flash of recognition or at least a glimmer of familiarity that had eluded me the first time I’d first seen the list at the Transit Watch Command Center. Still nothing.