Baghdad Green Zone
Robyn slammed the third glass of whiskey onto the desk.
The ice cubes clinked in the glass, making a crisp sound.
Dark brown liquid splashed out, landing on the stack of documents on the desk, leaving a dark stain.
He didn't care.
Outside the window, Baghdad was entering dusk.
Two days.
A full forty-eight hours.
Since his last attempt to contact the "accountant."
Robyn stared at the phone screen, the familiar icon of the encrypted communication app was silent, showing no activity.
All his sent messages displayed "unread," all the calls diverted to voicemail.
This wasn't the "accountant's" style.
The person was like a machine.
Arriving at the office promptly at 7:55 every morning, calling to report progress at 10 every Thursday morning without fail.
Almost unwavering.
Robyn had never asked for the "accountant's" real name, nor how many people he worked for.
Those weren't the questions to ask.
