PREFACE
JANUARY 2019, BAJA CALIFORNIA, MEXICO
A
s I watch a squadron of brown pelicans cruise by in formation, stall,
then splash down into the warm turquoise waters of the Sea of
Cortez, I receive an email reporting that an Iranian-backed Shi’ite militia
has arrested my company’s key man in Basra, Iraq. The de facto intel-
ligence service of southern Iraq, the Hashd al-Shaabi, is demanding a
laughably huge “fee” from my company in exchange for a “license” to
continue to operate.
The Shi’ite intelligence service is unaware of the fact that a former
CIA operations officer—yours truly—founded, owns, and operates the
business they are attempting to shake down. They are also ignorant of the
fact that their Iranian spymasters once targeted me for kidnap, torture,
interrogation, and assassination (in that order) when I served as the CIA’s
first chief of station in war-torn Sarajevo.
Come to think of it, they are also in the dark about the fact that my
company’s natural access to individuals of their ilk has been exploited—
with deadly effect, I might add—by relevant US authorities and coalition
forces.
So, it could be worse.
But the Hashd still poses a real threat to my company’s very existence.
And to my colleague and his family.
What’s my reaction to this latest dispatch from Iraq?
Meh.
The tide is out, the breeze is warm, and endless Baja beaches and
tide pools beckon. I can deal with Iraq, or I can hang out on my patio, sip
tequila and sangrita, and listen to another cumbia by Los Ángeles Azules.
Truth be told, I’m all Iraq’d out. Traveling in and out of Iraq, Syria,11