Read Online Khomeini's Boy: The Shadow War with Iran by Bryce Adams - Free Book Online
Authors: Bryce Adams
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the key to finding them might be in that letterhead. I was hoping you had some kind of corporate directory I could consult.”
“Not the way you mean. Unless…” he looked at the sword-and-eagle insignia so hard that Ambrose thought Carlisle’s eyes might burn through the paper. “I have an idea.” He walked over to his hoard of documents and began rifling through them.
Ambrose looked over his shoulder, wondering whether he should hold a flashlight over Carlisle’s shoulder. Ambrose asked, “Fuck, Carlisle. I’m sorry to put you through this. Which ministry are you starting with? Planning? Finance?”
“The Interior.” Carlisle pulled out a fat folder and tossed it onto the desk, where it thudded like a prize marlin hitting the deck of a trophy fisherman’s boat.
Ambrose needed a cigarette, but figured Carlisle would beat him to death with one of those folders if he lit up indoors. He asked, “John, I thought you said the Interior Ministry just meant the secret police?”
Carlisle nodded but didn’t look up from the folder while saying, “It does. They also handle security for property of the state.”
“What does that mean? The government owned the warehouse?”
Carlisle pulled out a document that bore the same eagle-and-sword insignia as the warehouse manifest. “Not the government. Qusay Hussein.”
Ambrose grabbed the sheet from Carlisle’s hand and pored over it. It was the cover page of articles of incorporation for an Iraqi company translating to “Two Rivers.” Date of incorporation: 1998. Sole shareholder and chief executive officer: Qusay Hussein al-Tikriti, Saddam’s second son, also known as “Qusay the Snake.”
Ambrose asked, “Do you have a list of the company’s holdings?”
Carlisle thumbed slowly through the remaining portions of the Two Rivers file, looking side-eyed at Ambrose. He said, “Twenty warehouses, all in Sadr City.” He reached into the file and then gave Ambrose an oversized urban schematic of Sadr City. “Why are you going into Sadr City, Ambrose? Didn’t the Man talk to you about this kind of thing?” Carlisle asked.
Ambrose trembled as he held the map. He ignored Carlisle’s question and replied, “This is it, John. This is what I’ve needed.”
“Ambrose, Jesus: everyone knows you’re about to be kicked stateside if you pull this kind of crap. What are you thinking?”
“This is how I get him, John. This is how I kill him.”
John Carlisle walked over and poured himself another drink. He made it disappear before responding. “What in the hell did I just do here? What’re you going to do with that map?” He asked.
Ambrose smiled, then walked over to pour himself another drink. Unlike Carlisle, he nursed his, and said, “I’ll tell you in a sec, John. First, let me ask you this: you said I speak twice the Arabic you do, so how is it that you found a business’s articles of incorporation in three minutes and could tell me that it belonged to Qusay Hussein?”
Carlisle made hard eye contact. “I matched the business logos. Qusay’s name was at the top, and it was the first thing I saw.”
Ambrose took a big sip, baring his teeth before he responded, “Do you speak good enough Arabic to distinguish between Arabic and Farsi, John?”
Carlisle smirked unsympathetically. “Enough to know that you were the right person to read that first document I sent your way. Enough to help other documents of the same sort keep flowing your way. Of course, that had to stop when you told the Man what you were up to. What in the world would make you show your hand like that? Did you actually ask for a strike team, the way they say? Who do you think you are?”
Ambrose folded up the map and then walked over to Carlisle’s desk, where he took back the manifest from warehouse 4. Then he slid them both into his tote bag and walked towards the door. Carlisle didn’t stop him. He just stood at his desk, drumming his fingers along its edge in
“Not the way you mean. Unless…” he looked at the sword-and-eagle insignia so hard that Ambrose thought Carlisle’s eyes might burn through the paper. “I have an idea.” He walked over to his hoard of documents and began rifling through them.
Ambrose looked over his shoulder, wondering whether he should hold a flashlight over Carlisle’s shoulder. Ambrose asked, “Fuck, Carlisle. I’m sorry to put you through this. Which ministry are you starting with? Planning? Finance?”
“The Interior.” Carlisle pulled out a fat folder and tossed it onto the desk, where it thudded like a prize marlin hitting the deck of a trophy fisherman’s boat.
Ambrose needed a cigarette, but figured Carlisle would beat him to death with one of those folders if he lit up indoors. He asked, “John, I thought you said the Interior Ministry just meant the secret police?”
Carlisle nodded but didn’t look up from the folder while saying, “It does. They also handle security for property of the state.”
“What does that mean? The government owned the warehouse?”
Carlisle pulled out a document that bore the same eagle-and-sword insignia as the warehouse manifest. “Not the government. Qusay Hussein.”
Ambrose grabbed the sheet from Carlisle’s hand and pored over it. It was the cover page of articles of incorporation for an Iraqi company translating to “Two Rivers.” Date of incorporation: 1998. Sole shareholder and chief executive officer: Qusay Hussein al-Tikriti, Saddam’s second son, also known as “Qusay the Snake.”
Ambrose asked, “Do you have a list of the company’s holdings?”
Carlisle thumbed slowly through the remaining portions of the Two Rivers file, looking side-eyed at Ambrose. He said, “Twenty warehouses, all in Sadr City.” He reached into the file and then gave Ambrose an oversized urban schematic of Sadr City. “Why are you going into Sadr City, Ambrose? Didn’t the Man talk to you about this kind of thing?” Carlisle asked.
Ambrose trembled as he held the map. He ignored Carlisle’s question and replied, “This is it, John. This is what I’ve needed.”
“Ambrose, Jesus: everyone knows you’re about to be kicked stateside if you pull this kind of crap. What are you thinking?”
“This is how I get him, John. This is how I kill him.”
John Carlisle walked over and poured himself another drink. He made it disappear before responding. “What in the hell did I just do here? What’re you going to do with that map?” He asked.
Ambrose smiled, then walked over to pour himself another drink. Unlike Carlisle, he nursed his, and said, “I’ll tell you in a sec, John. First, let me ask you this: you said I speak twice the Arabic you do, so how is it that you found a business’s articles of incorporation in three minutes and could tell me that it belonged to Qusay Hussein?”
Carlisle made hard eye contact. “I matched the business logos. Qusay’s name was at the top, and it was the first thing I saw.”
Ambrose took a big sip, baring his teeth before he responded, “Do you speak good enough Arabic to distinguish between Arabic and Farsi, John?”
Carlisle smirked unsympathetically. “Enough to know that you were the right person to read that first document I sent your way. Enough to help other documents of the same sort keep flowing your way. Of course, that had to stop when you told the Man what you were up to. What in the world would make you show your hand like that? Did you actually ask for a strike team, the way they say? Who do you think you are?”
Ambrose folded up the map and then walked over to Carlisle’s desk, where he took back the manifest from warehouse 4. Then he slid them both into his tote bag and walked towards the door. Carlisle didn’t stop him. He just stood at his desk, drumming his fingers along its edge in
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