A couple of units even took the Palace. Since it was among the easier places to fortify and protect, within short order it became the bizarre, grandiose, and yet rudimentary and rustic headquarters of the Coalition Provisional Government. No electricity, no air conditioning, no running water, portable lights only, and nearly constant mortar attacks. It looked like things had settled down some since then.

Big Daddy shrugged and shook his head. “It’s gotten crowded, for sure. What can I say? It’s the safest place in town. Almost nobody can get into the Green Zone who doesn’t belong here. Fanatics smuggle a bomb or a grenade in once in a while, and people still blow themselves up at the checkpoints on a regular basis, but if you don’t happen to be standing outside the gates when it happens, then you’re fine. We still take mortar fire sometimes, but it usually doesn’t reach, and the walls are ten feet thick anyway. Also, the swimming pool in the back has water in it now, and it’s open for business. Everybody wants to be here, and never mind the crowds.”

They passed a gaggle of people taking notes as a tall jarhead captain lectured them about something or other.

“I’ve got a conference room reserved up ahead here, so we should be fine,” Bill said. “We can get away from all this noise.”

He turned down a short, narrow corridor. At the end was a heavy wooden door which he opened without a key. The room was dimly lit by battery-operated lamps sitting on a table made from a thick wood slab sitting on two sawhorses. There were no windows. Instead, the walls were covered in a tiled mosaic showing a desert oasis scene, possibly from a time at the dawn of civilization.

Two men sat at the table. Both stood when Bill Cronin, Luke, and the team came in. The first, a tall man with close-cropped gray hair, stood ramrod straight in a United States Army camouflage uniform with no identifying marks. Luke knew right away what that meant. The second man was smaller, younger, with sandy hair, a haggard, doughy face and a bit of a paunch. His skin was pale despite being in the middle of a desert—he looked like he didn’t get outside much. He was smoking a cigarette and sweating profusely. The climate didn’t seem to agree with him.

“Agent Luke Stone, this is Colonel Radis of Joint Special Operations Command. This is Mr. Montgomery from the British Embassy.” Cronin made a funny bird’s feet gesture with his fingers when he said the words British Embassy. Luke also knew what that meant. The man didn’t work for the British Embassy.

He introduced his young team to the two men.

“Won’t you all sit down?” Colonel Radis said. “We’ve got water for everyone.”