Middle Man by David Rich Page A

could say that without accusation in his voice. “Someone hit one grave on Frank’s list. Ran into the local police. There was a firefight. One policeman was killed.” He paused. He knew my question. “The coffin did not get opened and I have not taken steps yet, so I don’t know if there is money or a body inside. They also hit one on your fake list. Dug up with shovels. Left the body beside the coffin.”
    â€œI wonder which list he gave up first.”
    The Major looked at me sharply, then said, “They would have killed him whether he gave them your list, the real list, or no list. He was a loose end.”
    â€œHow did they know we had identified Godwin?”
    â€œOnly three of us had that information: me, Will, and you,” the Major said without sounding defensive.
    â€œMaybe they’re just smart.”
    â€œDo you want the rest of the graves on the list dug up?”
    â€œBe best to guard them. I’d like to know if anyone else tries to dig them up,” I said.
    â€œBut you don’t think they will.” I shrugged. I didn’t know. “What’s your next move?”
    â€œI lost a man. I’m going to find who shot him.”
    â€œYou can do that. The FBI will let you work with them.”
    He made it sound as if I had requested a demotion. I stared at him while he turned all his attention to his food.
    Bearing a full pack, wearing combat boots, toting my rifle, I stepped into quicksand during basic training, lured there by the sergeant. I wriggled and writhed and fought and made things worse while the rest of the platoon cheered and taunted me. I was in up to my hips by the time the jeers made me stop moving. That stopped the sinking. I seemed to be suspended on a submerged platform and I looked with satisfaction to the sergeant. But the lesson was not over. The sergeant ordered the platoon to move out. All he said to me before marching away was “Don’t let go of your weapon.”
    Don’t fight, don’t argue, you’ll sink deeper. Taste the appetizer. I had not told Major Hensel about looking into the eyes of the killer, about his challenge to me, and now I could not tell him because he would take that as an answer and send me back to the FBI agents.
    The main course was served.
    The Major seemed to be able to time my thoughts. “You don’t want to work with the FBI, but, if you’re searching for the shooter, the FBI will follow you at the very least. And they’ll get involved in the money. Things will get more complicated. Don’t you like your lamb?”
    I had pushed it away and now I felt like a petulant child pouting for chicken fingers. Was he subtle enough to have manipulated me into that? I cut a piece and put it on his plate.
    â€œBasam Karkukli. Ever hear of him?” He did not wait for my answer. “He calls himself the King of Kurdistan.”
    â€œDoes anyone believe him?”
    â€œI’ve interviewed a dozen of the plotters. No one had the full picture, but here’s what I pieced together. As you know, the graves contained seed money, enough to get the revolution started in Iraqi Kurdistan. Taking over the oil fields would finance the rest. A few mentioned that they understood the plan called for Karkukli to be installed on the throne and have him lead a cooperative government. No one met him. And no one knows whose plan it was.”
    â€œSounds like Karkukli’s plan,” I said, offering a simpleton’s solution because I wanted this discussion to be over so I could return my attention to the Mask Man staring down at me.
    â€œHe’s been around, mostly in Europe, dining on the name and the supposed title. Fortunately for him, the Iranians tried to assassinate him about fifteen years ago in Berlin. That bestowed international cachet and gave him entrée to the deposed royalty circuit.”
    His cadence had the careful measurement I had heard only when being let