for one hundred yards or so, which according to Hadid was nothing compared to the delays during daylight hours when most convoys preferred to run. Then traffic could be backed up for miles.
“Are your passport and Army credentials in order?” Hadid asked.
“Yes,” McGarvey said, uncomfortable that he wasn’t armed.
“You will need to show them to the Kuwaiti Army patrol on this side of the border and then to the Iraqi police on the other side.”
“What about the Americans?”
“Delta Company, First Light Armored Recon Battalion. But they’re on standby with fifty-caliber Sasser sniper rifles in case someone tries to make trouble.”
“You have good information,” McGarvey said, impressed.
“It’s my part of the world,” Hadid said. “My life depends on good information.”
They moved forward slowly, until ten minutes later they reached the border crossing and a pair of Kuwaiti army border guards, armed with American M16s, asked to see their papers.
Hadid’s and his family’s papers raised no interest, but McGarvey’s passport and especially his U.S. Army credentials did, and one of the Kuwaiti border guards took the documents across the road to a low concrete block building, with machine-gun emplacements looking north on the roof.
Traffic began to back up behind them, and a U.S. Army captain jumped out of his RG-33 at the head of a convoy and came up to them.
“What’s the trouble up here?” he demanded, and he spotted McGarvey in the backseat. “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m an American freelance journalist,” McGarvey said, meeting the officer’s eyes.
The captain held out a hand. “Let’s see some ID.”
“No,” McGarvey said. “And I suggest you get back in your fucking thirty-three until we’re cleared here.”
At that moment a Kuwaiti officer came from the concrete block building, and ignoring the American officer, looked in at McGarvey. “You have an American Army pass. Why is it you didn’t fly direct to Baghdad?”
“I’m doing a piece on convoys traveling the Baghdad Road,” McGarvey said. He glanced at the captain. “And the men running them.”
The Kuwaiti officer handed McGarvey’s papers back. “You may pass,” he said, smiling slightly. “Good luck.”
“Is there something we should be aware of tonight?” Hadid asked, but the Kuwaiti had turned and headed away.
“Maybe I’ll see you in Baghdad, Captain,” McGarvey told the American. “What’s the name of your CO?”
The captain turned and stalked off, and Hadid moved past the barrier where they were stopped by a pair of Iraqi police who inspected their papers. When they looked at McGarvey’s he was sure they recognized the name, but they handed the papers back, stepped aside, and waved them through.
“They might be expecting me,” he told Hadid when they were on the other side and accelerating into the dark night.
“I saw it, too,” Hadid said. “But I have a few tricks up my sleeve, you’ll see.”
FORTY
Kangas and Mustapha had flown first class from Washington and had fully indulged in the free bar service, so that by the time they touched down at Baghdad’s International Airport, if not drunk they were certainly less than sharp.
Their contact man at Dulles had assured them that McGarvey was traveling undercover as a freelance journalist by the name of Tony Watkins, and was driving up from Kuwait, which gave them a twelve-hour head start. They weren’t worried. It wasn’t often that the cheap bastards handling travel arrangements for Admin sprung for first class, and they’d meant to enjoy every minute of it, because once they got to Baghdad they figured they’d be put up in some shit hole of a hotel.
It was early evening and the airport terminal was fairly busy. Since the so-called peace, a lot of international business was returning to the country, especially people interested in oil.
Through passport control and customs a young man came up to them and without a word handed Kangas a thick manila envelope then turned around and walked away, lost in the crowd almost immediately.
“Welcome to the hot zone,” Mustapha said. “Make sure it isn’t a fucking letter bomb, because that kid was for sure not our quartermaster.”
“Too light,” Kangas said, and he and Mustapha went down the corridor to an empty boarding area and opened the envelope. Remington had provided them with five thousand in U.S. currency, mostly hundred-dollar bills, a pair of presumably untraceable credit cards, and confirmed reservations for a suite at the new Baghdad International Airport Hotel and Business Center, along with a photo of Harry Weiss, their on-the-ground Admin contact, who would meet them once they checked into the hotel.
“This keeps getting better,” Mustapha said.
“There’s always