His superiors would have wanted him to have more men. Even the idea of using just six men to attack and kill a heavily armed escort would have made Washington shit a brown river, but Chip was a pro. The job went exactly as planned.
When the smoke cleared, Chip walked into the street with an M4 and reached through the shattered armored glass to open the door of the colonel’s Range Rover from the inside. It was disappointing that the colonel was dead—Chip would have liked the man to know who’d killed him—but the stainless-steel briefcase was there, as his source had said it would be, along with a cheap duffel stuffed with banded packets of hundred-dollar bills.
He thanked his men and handed each a stack of hundreds, saying that this small skirmish represented a great American victory against Iraqi corruption. The colonel was helping the insurgents, helping to kill their friends, and they had stopped him. The secrets in the briefcase would reveal more Iraqi traitors, and he was grateful.
Then Chip’s Farm-trained asset stepped out of a doorway with an M16 and opened fire with ruthless efficiency. Chip dropped to the ground, and a few of the men had time to return fire, but it was over in less than a minute. Six men down. Two men left.
All according to plan.
Even the part where the asset, in dusty Western clothes and a black-on-white keffiyeh, jacked in a fresh mag and sighted his rifle squarely on Chip’s chest. “Drop the gun and open the briefcase.”
? ? ?
CHIP WORE BODY ARMOR and a helmet, but they wouldn’t help him if the man wanted to kill him close up. He’d considered this possibility carefully from the start. The asset’s outwardly ordinary persona concealed a truly extraordinary talent. Chip had seen this from the first time they’d worked together, and had treated the man accordingly, granting him independence and respect.
It was Chip who had given his asset the opportunity to explore his talent and reach his true potential. It was Chip who had paid the man bonuses far above his meager Company paycheck. This had earned him the man’s loyalty, although the asset didn’t seem to function like a normal human being. No evidence of emotion whatsoever. He was more like some kind of advanced killing robot.
“No problem,” said Chip. He laid the M4 in the bloody dust and worked the latches on the briefcase. His source had also provided the combinations to the locks, and the location of the key, on a gold chain around the colonel’s neck.
Inside was a stack of six thick international document mailers.
“Supposed to be Eurobonds,” said Chip. “Do you want me to open one?”
“Yes.” The asset kept the muzzle of his weapon trained on Chip’s chest. This was the moment of truth. Chip set the briefcase on the smoking hood of the Rover, removed the top envelope, and slid out the documents inside. Thick linen paper with ornate printing and a clearly visible watermark.
“Bearer bonds,” said Chip. “Unregistered. Payable to the person physically holding the paper. Ten thousand euros each.” He felt the smile grow on his face with each moment his asset didn’t pull the trigger. He riffled the documents with his thumb. “I’d say about a hundred in this stack, wouldn’t you? That’s a million euros.” He slid the documents back in their envelope, dropped the envelope back in the stainless case, then made a show of counting the envelopes. “Six million euros. About six and a half million U.S. at today’s exchange rate.”
The asset looked at him through those ordinary eyes. He was brown from the sun and the keffiyeh on his head looked completely natural. The rifle barrel didn’t move.
“This was never about the colonel,” said the asset. “This was about you.”
“No,” Chip said, with calm conviction. “This was about you and me. You just didn’t need to know, not until right now. Unless you really want to go back to the chain of command at Langley? Maybe train the next generation at the Farm? That’s sure as hell not what I want to do.”
The asset just raised an eyebrow.
The man was dry, Chip would give him that. In fact, the asset scared the shit out of Chip, but he was committed to his course. The capitalism of war. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
“This isn’t enough to retire on,” said Chip. “But it’s enough for seed money. I want you and me to go into business together. With your skills and mine, we’re going to be rich.”
The asset’s expression remained unchanged. Chip kept talking, selling the dream.
“Corporate security. Protecting secrets for some companies, maybe stealing them from others, all at twenty times our current salary. We use this money to set up a nice office, hire a couple of hot secretaries. Sounds good, right?”
“You’re quite a salesman,” said the asset. “You have specifics?”