Middle Man by David Rich Page B

down in a way that somebody else imagined was easy.
    Don’t squirm. Don’t struggle. Breathe. I sipped my wine. You only sink if you try not to. And there was Dan, delighted, sitting next to me in one of his best suits, saying, “
Why would you struggle or resist? You’re about to get an offer
.” He spoke the last word as if it were the key to nirvana.
    â€œHe’s holding court now at an estate in Houston. Had a parade of former officers come through, but now the traffic has shifted to oilmen. He’s telling them his takeover is imminent and if they want the oil concession, they have to start paying now.”
    He waited. I waited. A few thousand questions scrolled in front of me. I chose one. “Whose plan is it?”
    He ignored that. “I had someone on it. He died. Ran his car into a tree. I think someone helped him do that, but we can’t prove it. He was working from the outside. Watching. Listening. I don’t know how they found him out. If you decide to do this, you would have to take a different approach.”
    â€œWho was he?”
    He told me the dead soldier’s name. But I never knew him. He was Army, a major.
    For a moment, I longed to be a Marine in a war zone again, a world with clear comprehensible commands like “search and destroy,” “engage the enemy,” “take and hold.” But I knew I didn’t mean it. I was now a confirmed citizen of the fog, more spy than soldier; the clarity would confuse me. I would mistrust it. And that would probably get me killed. I asked the dreaded question, knowing the answer would hardly help.
    â€œWhat is the mission?”
    The Major smiled to let me know I chose the right question. “He’s a puppet who thinks he’s a king. He was a puppet when McColl was alive and planning to put him on the throne, and he’s still a puppet. I don’t care who ends up controlling the oil. They have to sell it to someone. I don’t care if Iraq and Turkey and Iran team up against the Kurds or go to war with each other. It’s more than all that. It’s more than the money. I want the puppet master. I want the guy who put this plot together.” He waited and his expression hardened in a way I had never seen. His right hand tightened on his knife. The waiter paused at the partition and turned away quickly. “If he’s military, we’ll deal with him. If he’s civilian, we’ll turn him over. Find him, get something on him. I’m pretty sure that along the way, you’ll find the shooters, too.”
    â€œWhat are the rules of engagement?”
    â€œConsider yourself as operating in a war zone. I want him alive. If possible. I want you alive more.”
    We stared at each other for a while. I could not summon the same passion for the mysterious puppet master. My thoughts were on the Mask Man. Our paths were going to cross. Wartime rules of engagement suited me very well.
    â€œIf you don’t want to find him, just say so,” the Major said. “Someone else will. You can chase the shooters and maybe you’ll find them, but that won’t mean you solved anything and it won’t mean you closed this out the way I think you want to. Maybe the way you need to.”
    He put the knife down and picked up his fork and ate a piece of his fish, then put the fork down. Finished.
    He did not speak again until after desert and coffee had been served. “They’re getting desperate. I can sense it. The countdown began when they opened that first grave, the one Dan looted. Without the cash, they’ll lose their recruits. This is the time. Find the guy pulling the strings.” He signaled for the check.
    I reached across and tasted his dessert, something like pudding. “So what are the suits for?”
    â€œI’ll explain,”
said Dan.

8
    T he first press release said I had left Argos Capital to start my own fund with two hundred million in