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set up for Grainger Caldwell. The problem seemed to be that
small amounts of arms shipped over for the security force were disappearing on
a regular basis and no one seemed to know how or when.
    Dan looked at Mike. “Maybe this guy’s not as good as you
thought, Mikey.”
    D’Antoni glared at him. “You don’t think I’ve asked myself
about that a hundred times since Rick called about this mess? But I’m telling
you, I checked him out six ways from Sunday. If there’s anything wrong, he’s
better at hiding it than we are at finding it out.”
    “How many guards does he have in the warehouse?” Dan asked.
    “He says three at all times.” Rick rubbed his face again.
“And that was the drill while I was there. I spot-checked it several times.”
    “Don’t forget, half the security force they hired over there
is Iraqi. Who knows how many rotten apples there are in the barrel.”
    “We’ve had some help picking and choosing but what can I
say? This thing was a mess from day one.”
    Mark Halloran drummed his fingers on the table. “Well, you
baby-sat this load and spent five days there training their guys in new
procedures. Where do you think we stand?”
    Rick stood up, stretched his cramped muscles and went to the
sideboard to refill his coffee mug. He was still plagued by whatever it is he
was trying to remember and couldn’t get a hold on.
    “You have to picture the situation,” he explained. “Grainger
Caldwell is working out of a trailer at BIAP—Baghdad International Airport.
They commandeered one of the hangars to stash all their equipment, including
the construction machines. Their guys—security and construction workers—live in
a building they threw up in five minutes right next to the hangar. Security
works in shifts at the hangar and at the construction sites. But they aren’t
the only ones at BIAP.”
    “I know, I know.” Dan was doodling on the pad in front of
him. “We knew going in that almost everyone with a piece of the pie in Iraq
would be headquartered there. Are you saying you think some of them are
stealing the arms?”
    Rick shrugged. “I’m not saying anything except the next
shipment going over there is the big one. I’ve given these guys as much
training as I can. Now it’s up to Jordan to implement it. And they definitely
need what we’re sending them.”
    “Including the three Humvees with the roof cut out for the
gunner,” Mark reminded everyone.
    “Here’s what I think.” Rick looked at everyone in the room.
“I think something’s going on and we’ve just seen the tip of the iceberg. We
drew straws and I got to honcho this gig so whatever goes wrong is in my lap.
We’ve got a C-130J chartered to take the load over. I’m going with it because
my internal radar is sending me funny signals.”
    And also because of my contact who warned me that this
might be going to happen.
    “Who’s flying?” Troy Arsenault, the fifth member of the
team, wanted to know.
    “I took care of the charter,” Mike answered. “Ed and I will
be in the cockpit.”
    Ed was Dan’s brother and one of the team’s two pilots.
    “Do you think you’ll need a medic?” That was one of Troy’s
many contributions to the agency.
    “Jesus.” Rick shook his head. “I hope not.”
    “All right.” Dan pushed the pad of paper away from him. “But
let’s keep the departure and arrival strictly under wraps. That way we have no
leaks. Call Jordan on the satellite phone and give him a five-day window. Then
decide when you want to go.”
    The one thing Rick hadn’t mentioned was something he’d
spotted on Greg Jordan’s desk that lurked in the back of his mind, hiding. He
couldn’t remember what it was, only that it had set off alarm bells. But when
he wanted to ask Jordan about it, whatever it was had disappeared. Now for the
life of him he couldn’t call it up and it was driving him nuts.
    “All right.” He drained the last of his coffee. “I’ll get on
it first thing in the