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Nolan lowered his voice even further, gestured toward the desk. “But don’t let Tucker hear that. Jack bid it out at around twenty an hour per man, but as I say, Kuvan’s a genius. His fee is two bucks an hour, which takes our cost up to three an hour, so we’re hauling in seventeen. That’s per hour, twenty-four seven, times a hundred and sixty guys so far, with another two hundred in the pipeline. And the more we bring on, the more we make. Like I told you, you play it right, this place is a gold mine. How much they paying you, Evan, two grand a month?”
    “Close. Plus hazard duty…”
    Nolan cut him off with a laugh. “Hazard duty, what’s that, a hundred fifty a month? That’s what our cooks make.”
    “Yeah, you mentioned that.” The news disturbed Evan—a hundred and fifty dollars extra per month and he faced death every day.
    After a little pause, Nolan looked at him sideways. “You know what I’m making?”
    “No idea.”
    “You want to know?”
    A nod. “Sure.”
    “Twenty thousand a month. That’s tax-free, by the way. Of course, I’ve got lots of experience and there’s a premium on guys like me. But still, guys like you can finish up here, then turn around and come back a month later with any of us contractors, and you’re looking at ten grand minimum a month. A six-month tour and you’re back home, loaded. This thing lasts long enough, the smart-money bet by the way, and I go home a millionaire.”
     
     
    U P AT THE DESK, Major Charles Tucker looked like he could use some time in the sun. He’d sweated through his shirt. He sported rimless glasses, had a high forehead, and nearly invisible blond eyebrows—a caricature of the harried accountant. And he made no secret of his disdain for Nolan. “Let’s see your paperwork. Who signed off on it this time?”
    “Colonel Ramsdale, sir. Air-base Security Services Coordinator.”
    “Another one of Mr. Allstrong’s friends?”
    “A comrade-in-arms. Yes, sir. They were in Desert Storm together.”
    “I’m happy for them.” Tucker looked down at the sheets of paper Nolan had handed him. He flipped the first page, studied the second, went back to the first.
    “Everything in order, sir?” Nolan asked with an ironic obsequiousness.
    “This is a lot of money to take away in cash, Nolan.” He gestured to Evan. “Who’s this guy?”
    “Convoy support, sir. Protection back to the base.”
    Tucker went back to the papers. “Okay, I can see the payroll, but what’s this sixty-thousand-dollar add-on for”—he squinted down at the paper—“does this say dogs?”
    “Yes, sir. Bomb-sniffing dogs, which we need to feed and build kennels for, along with their trainers and handlers.”
    “And Ramsdale approved this?”
    “Apparently so, sir.” Nolan leaned down and pretended to be looking for Ramsdale’s signature. Evan stifled a smile. Nolan, punctiliously polite, somehow managed to put a bit of the needle into every exchange.
    “I’m going to have somebody in audit verify this.”
    Nolan shrugged. “Of course, sir.”
    “Sixty thousand dollars for a bunch of dogs!”
    “Bomb-sniffing dogs, sir.” Nolan remained mild. “And the infrastructure associated with them.”
    But apparently there was nothing Tucker could do about it. Nolan had his form in order and it was signed by one of the Army’s sanctioned pay-masters. He scribbled something on the bottom of the form. Then he looked up. Behind Nolan, the line had grown again to four or five other customers. “Specie?” Tucker said.
    “I beg your pardon,” Nolan replied.
    “Don’t fuck with me, Nolan. Dollars or dinars?”
    “I think dollars.”
    “Yes. I thought you would think that. You’re paying your people in dollars?”
    “That’s all they’ll take, sir. The old dinar’s a little shaky right now.”
    Tucker made another note, tore off his duplicate copy, and put it in his top right-hand drawer. “This is going to audit,” he repeated, then looked around Nolan