Middle Man by David Rich Page A

encouragement to keep the chatter going. We moved back to the living room so she could finish her salad.
    â€œHow did you meet Major Hensel?”
    â€œI babysat his children,” I said.
    â€œHe has kids?”
    â€œThree. How did you meet him?”
    â€œI don’t know you well enough to say.” She paused and stared at me. “You’re lying. He has no kids. Give me something to do.” She got up and pushed the cart into the hallway. “I put on that wig and those heels and I’m another person. I feel like I can do anything.”
    She seemed like the same person to me, but that was fine. “I want to know who owns the house Maya and her father live in. If they’re renting, who is paying the bills. There’s an attorney, Darrell White, who might have all those answers.”
    â€œThank you. You won’t be sorry. Thank you.” She came close to me and went up on her toes, and I bent down and turned my cheek so she could plant her kiss there. She looked at me to see if that was the way I wanted things to be. I nodded. She shrugged and put on her sandals.
    I said, “Don’t come back here. Assume you’re being watched. Assume I am being watched.”
    â€œGive me your phone number.”
    â€œNo. Call the Major if you need to reach me. Give him whatever information you get.”
    She squinted at me and shook her head. “You are a grump.”

12
    T he clock beside the bed read 4:12. My phone read 4:09. I left the light off while I pulled on jeans. Through the peephole, I saw two men in suits. They knocked again. Harder this time.
    I was hoping for a kinder, more civil introduction: tea in the garden and talk of yachts on the Adriatic. But at least they knocked first and bothered to lie, claiming to be hotel security. I paused only long enough to remind myself to be indignant and scared. The first two moved in quickly and took hold of me. Two others followed them in. A tall Middle Eastern man turned on the lights. I squinted to show how uncomfortable and disoriented I was and I did not struggle too much. I gave them a quick list of the questions they expected: What is this, how dare you, who are you?
    The Middle Eastern man stood in front of me, looking me over with distaste. The fourth man was solid and wide with a big square head and calm, careful eyes, a centurion on duty, seeing as much as he could, believing as little as he should. He walked past me into the bedroom.
    The Middle Eastern man spoke: “If you assure me of your cooperation, these men will release you.”
    â€œYeah. Sure. I’m not running away, if that’s what you mean.”
    The two suits let me go. “I am Zoran. I am factotum to His Excellency, Basam Karkukli, King of all Kurdistan.”
    I started to laugh, knowing it would irritate him. “The King sent you? If this is about the kiss on the cheek from Maya . . .”
    Zoran swallowed his anger. He had bases to cover. “His Majesty asked me to convey to you his gratitude for your cooperation with this most unusual request. I assure you that he would not disturb you unless the matter were of the greatest urgency.”
    â€œI said I’d be there at noon. There’s no need for this. Please leave now.” The two suits flanked the door. Zoran stared at me as if he had not heard a word. I picked up the phone.
    The centurion appeared in front of me. He did not shake his head, but his expression made it clear: I would be better off if we did not get to that stage. I put down the phone. The centurion was holding my phone and wallet. Something passed between him and Zoran.
    â€œThis is Mr. Gill. You will get dressed now, please,” Zoran said.
    â€œI want to know one thing: Did the King come into your room and roust you and make you roust these guys, or were you all sitting around in your suits and the King ordered you to come over here?”
    A vein seemed to come to life in