Point Of Betrayal. Don Pendleton

      Stone came to his feet and Riyadh did likewise. “I thank you for your help,” Riyadh said. “More importantly, my country thanks you.”

      He held out his hand and Stone ignored it.

      “Look,“ Stone said, “let’s get one thing straight—as long as I walk away alive and Saddam goes out horizontal, I don’t give two shits what happens to you or your country. Washington cares. I don’t. The way I see it, I’ll probably be back here in five years, helping someone else overthrow you because you can’t handle the power, either. So take your olive branch and shove it.”

      Stone turned and let himself out. As the door slammed shut, a smile tugged at the corners of Riyadh’s mouth. Stone was insufferable, but a necessary evil. Just like Riyadh’s alliance with the United States. Let Stone shoot off his mouth so long as he helped Riyadh attain his goals.

      “We should kill him.”

      Riyadh turned, regarded his brother. The elder man dismissed the notion with a shake of his head.

      “No,” Riyadh said. “We need him and his people. To kill them would kill our cause.”

      “We’ve made a pact with the devil, Tariq,” Abdullah said. “These people are not our friends, they are puppet masters. And once we have done the hard work, they will cut the strings, leave us to die. Please do not tell me otherwise.”

      “Have vision, my young brother,” Riyadh replied. “We do not need friends, we need allies. Our goals and America’s are the same. That makes us allies. In politics, you learn that sometimes you must work with those you do not like if you are to achieve what you want.

      “Stone’s a killer. You and I, we are freedom fighters. Stone’s friends are soldiers, good men. But he’s a murderer. He knows tonight blood will spill and it fills him with joy. Hopefully, he will not be disappointed.”

      CHRIS DOYLE GUNNED the Jeep Cherokee’s engine, wheeled the vehicle through the military checkpoint and breathed a sigh of relief. The soldiers had given him and his vehicle a cursory look, checking under seats and sifting through his camera bag. They hadn’t looked hard enough to find the compartment hidden in the rear of his vehicle, the one containing weapons, radio equipment, black clothes and camou paint. Doyle had made small talk with the men, a pair of foot soldiers, and slipped each of them an impressive amount of Iraqi dinars, enough to expedite the search without arousing suspicion. After all, he had a deadline to meet.

      Doyle had told the soldiers he was a French photojournalist for a nature magazine, in the country shooting photos of Iraq’s deserts and the swamplands feeding off the Tigris and Euphrates rivers. He had the forged papers, a dozen digital memory Archers filled with pictures, and a murderous sunburn to back up his claim. Because he’d spent most of his time in undeveloped areas, he’d been allowed to travel without a government monitor.

      Goosing the Jeep’s accelerator a little harder, he settled into the leather bucket seats, checked the rearview mirror. A pair of stationary headlights glared back at him, and he caught glimpses of the guards’ silhouettes as they busied themselves with a new search. They seemed disinterested in him, which was exactly how Doyle wanted it.

      Hopefully, in a few hours when all hell broke loose, they’d forget they ever met him, not an unlikely scenario. Doyle was nondescript and grateful for it. Average height and weight. Mouse-brown hair cut to an average length. Soft chin. Dull hazel eyes that masked an oceans-deep intelligence that had earned him full-ride scholarship offers to three Ivy League universities. His dull appearance had made him effective first as a Force Recon soldier and later as a CIA assassin and paramilitary operative.

      Motoring deeper into Baghdad, Doyle drummed the balls of his thumbs against the steering wheel, began humming an old blues tune. In his mind, he traced the song’s rhythm pattern, thought longingly of his electric guitar stored in his apartment in Langley, Virginia. When was the last time he’d been home? Six months. Eight? He usually lost count after three. By then he’d sunk deep enough undercover that Chris Doyle had ceased to exist, resurrected only for occasional phone calls to his handlers back at Langley. Otherwise he lived someone else’s life. Today a photojournalist. Last year, posing as a United Nations translator so he could kill two Russian diplomats stealing American secrets to sell to rogue nations.

      Each time, a perfect kill. Each time, three more stepped up to replace his slain targets. It was as though he was helping thugs and terrorists become upwardly mobile.

      Doyle ground his teeth together, felt acid bubble up in his stomach. Face it, he thought, you’re pissing in the ocean and drowning at the same time. He checked the rearview mirror again. Rather than look for pursuers, though, he studied his drawn, haggard face. Bottom line, he was losing his edge. He’d seen his work undone one too many times, either by enemies or friends, to believe he was making a difference. After tonight, he may say to hell with all of it.

      Assuming, of course, that he survived tonight.

      Twenty-five 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