by Robert Gandt
“What if the packet is not there? Tyrwhitt asked.
“It means we have been compromised,” the officer said, “and you are in deadly danger. You must execute your egress plan.” At this, the officer looked directly at him. “You do have an egress plan, don’t you?”
Tyrwhitt was surprised by the question. He tried to sound positive. “Of course.”
From across the plaza, Tyrwhitt studied the gate of the mosque. A couple of motorscooters and a half dozen bicycles leaned against the outer wall. No one was entering or leaving.
Tyrwhitt started across the plaza. When he was still thirty feet from the front gate, he heard it, then looked over his shoulder and saw it turning the corner.
The black Fiat. Its lights were extinguished. It was coming toward him.
Tyrwhitt tried to affect a creaky shuffle, like that of a man twice his age. He continued shuffling toward the gate.
It seemed to work. The men in the Fiat appeared not to recognize him in the kaffiyeh and black jacket.
He reached the front gate as the Fiat slowly crossed the plaza. He opened it and entered. The courtyard of the mosque was deserted. He peeked through the door to the prayer hall and saw half a dozen worshipers inside.
Even in the half light, he had no trouble finding the niche in the southern wall, with the symbol indicating the direction to Mecca. At the base of the wall, just as the informant had said, was the ancient box.
He raised the solid slab cover. Inside, at the bottom of the box, lay the blackened stone, the relic from the Kaaba.
And nothing else.
He ran his hand around the inside of the box. It was empty except for the stone. He looked behind the box, around and beneath. There was no packet.
Tyrwhitt backed away from the box and tried to think. He was almost precisely on time. The informant had been specific: Eight o’clock. No earlier, no later. Something was wrong.
What if the packet is not there?
The informant’s words came back to him: It means we have been compromised.
Tyrwhitt’s heart began to race. Outside waited the black Fiat and the Bazrum agents. What did it mean? Had the informant been dragged in and interrogated? Had he told them about the dead drop? Did they know?
Of course they knew, he thought. Why the hell else would the Fiat have homed in like the fucking angel of death to this decrepit old mosque? The bastards were expecting him.
But they hadn’t recognized him as he entered the mosque. The disguise — the kaffiyeh and black jacket and old man’s shuffle — had worked. Or had it?
Tyrwhitt again opened the door to the prayer room. The worshipers did not look up at him. At the back of the room he saw another door. He shuffled through the room and tried the door. It opened to a darkened alleyway.
He closed the door behind him, blinking in the darkness. Something — a cat or a large rat — scurried beneath him, making a hissing noise.
He had walked ten meters when he nearly ran into him. The man wore black trousers and a jacket. He wasn’t moving, just standing there watching. One of the Bazrum agents from the black Fiat.
Waiting for him.
Bluff, thought Tyrwhitt. Shuffle on past the agent. There was nothing else he could do. Maybe the disguise would still work.
The agent threw up an arm, blocking his way. In one abrupt motion he snatched the kaffiyeh from Tyrwhitt’s head, exposing his shock of red hair. “Haaa!” the agent said in a triumphant voice.
Tyrwhitt saw the agent’s hand — the same one he threw up to stop him — sliding into his jacket, going for his weapon.
Tyrwhitt didn’t wait. With all his weight he stiff-armed the man under the chin, shoving him straight back into the wall of the mosque. The agent bounced back in a crouch. His hand came out of his jacket clutching an automatic pistol.
And then his eyes widened. He stared at Tyrwhitt in disbelief.
He tried to raise the pistol, but it slipped from his hand. He gazed down at his shirt. The grip of Tyrwhitt’s six-inch switch blade was protruding from his chest. Blood was spurting through his shirt from his pierced heart.
The man’s eyes bulged and went white. He slid down the wall, sprawling into the alleyway. His sightless eyes stared upward into the night.
Tyrwhitt retrieved his knife. He could see that the agent was a short, muscular man, perhaps thirty-five or forty, with a heavy black mustache. He cleaned his knife blade on the dead man’s jacket, then removed his kaffiyeh, which was still clutched in the man’s hand. Tough luck, mate. Better you than me.
He peered in the darkness up and down the alleyway. There had been three agents in the Fiat, and surely they had a radio. He had only minutes left. Seconds, perhaps. He turned and began to run.
<>
The faded blue Volkswagen was still in the shed where he had stashed it. The top was covered with droppings from the birds that nested in the rafters. On either side, wheelbarrows loaded with plaster filled up every square inch of space. The Beetle’s upholstery had long since faded and split from the effects of the harsh Middle East sun. The fenders looked like they had endured a demolition derby. That suited Tyrwhitt. The car looked no different from the thousands of other rattletrap cars that clattered around Baghdad, with one single exception. It’s engine and running gear were in perfect condition. The Beetle could get him out of Iraq.
Outside, he could hear the city stirring to life. He had taken nearly all night to get here. By this time they would be scouring Baghdad looking for the reporter who had killed the Bazrum agent. He had made his way slowly, slipping into darkened doorways and alleys whenever he heard a vehicle approaching.
Now all he had to do was drive away. But to where? He was in the center of Iraq — 375 miles from Zakho, on the Turkish border, which required driving through a no man’s land where he would be prey not only to Iraqis but Kurdish rebels and bandits. The border of Jordan was the same distance but nearly unreachable by a normal wheeled vehicle. Syria was as close as Turkey, but there he would surely be detained at the border and handed back to the Iraqis. And he could forget Kuwait, at least by the direct route. The border was still heavily patrolled by the Republican Guard.
His safest choice was Saudi Arabia. He could drive southward through the desert, remaining west of Kuwait, then enter Kuwait from the south. He might be picked up by Saudi border patrols, but that was okay because they would deliver him to the Americans in Riyadh.
The problem was, the roads amounted to nothing more than camel trails. You needed a jeep or a Humvee to navigate the ancient routes. If the Beetle broke down, he would be stranded in the vastness of the Syrian desert. He and the faded Volkswagen would join the carcasses of the thousand scorched tanks, armored cars, and smugglers’ trucks.
Of course, he could summon help.
The Cyfonika.
You Idiot! Tyrwhitt thought as he stood in the darkened shed. The goddamned satellite phone. He had left it back in his room at the Rasheed.
Tyrwhitt cursed himself. Why had he left the damned thing? Because it was cumbersome, nearly ten pounds with the battery pack. And anyway, he had expected to return to the Rasheed.
Not that he felt any sense of duty to protect the secret technology built into the Cyfonika. But he could at least transmit the news that there would be no further news — the game was up. Saddam’s holy war, for all he knew, would commence after morning prayers.
With the Cyfonika he could tell the agency that he was skipping the country. He could even tell them exactly where he was if the situation got really nasty.
And then he nearly laughed. Why would they come? Why would the haughty CIA consider sending an armed unit into a hostile country to rescue one of their “assets?” He was as expendable as toilet paper. If trapped, he was supposed to do the expedient thing: Destroy his data and equipment — mainly the Cyfonika — and then, of course, himself. Leave no prize for the enemy.
But if they thought he was alive — and about to fall into Iraqi hands. . .? Wouldn�
��t his life suddenly have immense value?
He needed the damned phone.
Tyrwhitt could see the gray dawn light seeping through the cracks of the door. It was still early. Perhaps they hadn’t yet connected him to the killing of the Bazrum agent.
He had to retrieve the Cyfonika.
<>
In the pre-dawn coolness, he could see wisps of vapor trailing off the helicopter’s rotor blades. Like all fighter pilots, Maxwell distrusted the whirling, gyrating, impossibly complicated machinery of a helicopter. Too many moving parts, too much to go wrong.
It was a short ride, he reminded himself. In the gray light he could already make out the irregular silhouette of the command ship, USS Blue Ridge. They were skimming the surface of the Gulf at fifty feet.
Maxwell felt the helo slow, then begin its descent to the pad on the cruiser’s aft deck. Half a minute later he stepped out, clinging to his uniform cap in the downwash of the still whirling rotor blades.
Waiting for him was a first-class petty officer, who led him below decks, directly to the SCIF.
The facility was a cave-like chamber much like the one aboard the Reagan. But here aboard the Blue Ridge, which was a command ship, the level of security was cranked up to an even greater level. This, Maxwell observed, was really spook country.
“We’re ready for you, Commander,” said a bespectacled young lieutenant, wearing khakis. “I’ve already pulled the tapes from that three-hour slice you requested.”
He led Maxwell to a console that mounted an array of three-foot tape reels. “We’ve got the whole RF spectrum covered, but I narrowed the search down to the ultra-high-frequency band you flying types use. There’s your headset. When you’re ready, I’ll show you what we found.”
Maxwell slipped on the earphones, then gave the lieutenant a thumbs-up. The reels began to wind.
He listened for nearly twenty minutes. Then he heard it. Urgently, he signaled the lieutenant to stop the tape. “Right there. Run it again, please, the last three minutes.”
Maxwell pressed the earphones to his head, straining to hear every nuance. As the tape played, Maxwell’s head began to nod in understanding. It was all coming clear. Finally he had more than just a hunch. Your first impression is almost always the right one. . .
Chapter Twenty-Two
Trapped
Baghdad
0830, Thursday, 29 May
Baksheesh. An immensely civilized tradition, thought Tyrwhitt. The custom of paying gratuities, tips, bribes, in order to accomplish your purpose. It had greased the wheels of commerce in the Middle East for centuries.
He hoped the custom would continue as he slid the five green bills bearing the portrait of Andrew Jackson into the palm of Ibrahim, the night porter at the Rasheed. Ibrahim was a skinny man with a sharp, hawklike profile and several missing teeth. He had a wary look about him, with the narrow, cynical eyes of a man who trusted no one, believed in nothing. Nothing but baksheesh.
Tyrwhitt was also counting on the fact that Ibrahim disliked the safari-suited Bazrum thugs as much as he despised the administration of Iraq’s president. He had lost a son in the Gulf War, and another had returned from captivity permanently deaf, the result of a fuel-air bomb detonated directly over his bunker.
They stood in the pantry, just inside the back service entrance. Ibrahim counted the bills, then slid them into his vest pocket. It was more money than he earned in a year at the hotel.
“Two hours ago,” said Ibrahim. “They were here. They entered your room, then they left.”
“Did they take anything?”
“Like what?”
“A leather bag.” Tyrwhitt gestured, indicating the shape of the Cyfonika satchel.
“No. I think they were looking for you, not a bag.”
Tyrwhitt nodded. It was possible, he thought. The Bazrum agents were vicious but stupid. They might not think to retrieve the articles in his room until they realized he was gone.
He gave Ibrahim instructions on where to search for the satchel, in the trunk against the foot of the bed.
“I will find it,” said the porter. “Stay here, out of sight. It will take five minutes.”
Tyrwhitt waited in the pantry. It was broad daylight outside now, and he could hear the din of honking horns and unmuffled motors on the busy street. The streets would be clogged with the unruly traffic of downtown Baghdad.
He peeped through the drawn curtains and checked the narrow street that arced around the back of the hotel. He saw no agents. No black Fiats. So far, so good.
He settled onto Ibrahim’s wooden stool. He felt suddenly fatigued, deprived of sleep. He knew he would go many more hours, a day perhaps, before he could sleep again.
He slid his right hand into his jacket pocket and wrapped it around the Beretta. It was odd that he felt no remorse about killing the Bazrum man. Maybe that would come later. He’d never killed before, but he’d always wondered how it would make him feel. Idly, he wondered what Claire would think—
Ibrahim came back. The pantry door swung closed behind him. In his hand was the Cyfonika satchel. “Come with me,” he said.
Tyrwhitt rose from the stool, about to follow. Then he stopped. Something, a nagging sensation, warned him.
Ibrahim’s eyes. Gone were the narrow, cynical eyes. Ibrahim’s eyes were wide open, darting about like those of a frightened animal.
“Where are we going?” Tyrwhitt asked.
“To safety. You will see.” The eyes avoided making contact.
Tyrwhitt withdrew the Beretta. Ibrahim’s eyes widened even further. “Who is out there?” Tyrwhitt demanded. “How many?”
Ibrahim’s eyes looked toward the pantry door just as it flew open.
A Bazrum agent, dressed in a dark safari suit, burst inside. His pistol was already raised. A split second elapsed while he fastened his eyes on Tyrwhitt.
It was too long. Kaploom! The first round from Tyrwhitt’s Beretta struck him in the chest. The shot sounded like a cannon firing in the closed room.
The man staggered backward, trying to aim his weapon.
Tyrwhitt fired again — Kaploom! — opening a purple hole in the man’s forehead.
As the man dropped, Tyrwhitt saw the second agent, directly behind him. The man was retreating through the door.
Tyrwhitt fired once, missing him. The agent turned and bolted through the door. Kaploom! Tyrwhitt fired again, hitting him in the temple. The man went down, caroming into the opposite wall.
The spring-loaded pantry door slammed shut.
Tyrwhitt dropped to a crouch and scuttled away from the door. Ibrahim was flattened against the wall, trying his best to be invisible. His eyes had expanded to the size of saucers.
Tyrwhitt listened for noises outside the door. He could hear only the raspy sound of Ibrahim’s breathing. He aimed the pistol at the porter. “How many, goddammit?”
“Only those two.”
You lying asshole, thought Tyrwhitt. Then why are you trying to become part of the wallpaper?
“Where was the satchel?”
Ibrahim nodded toward the door. “They had it.”
Tyrwhitt tried to think. They had been expecting him. And they would not be in a hurry to storm the room again. First they had to close off the escape routes. And probably get reinforcements.
The Volkswagen was parked a hundred yards from the back entrance. Or at least he hoped the damned thing was still there.
He had to run for it.
He looked again at the sprawled body of the Bazrum agent. Blood was oozing from the hole in his forehead. On the other side of the door lay the second agent. That raised the score to three.
Then he looked at Ibrahim, and anger swept over him. I can make it four.
Still crouched, he shuffled over to where Ibrahim was pressed against the wall. Ibrahim’s eyes filled with terror. Tyrwhitt jammed the muzzle hard against his temple. Ibrahim began to tremble.
Tyrwhitt shoved his hand inside the porter’s vest
. He felt around, then came up with the five twenty-dollar bills. Ibrahim’s eyes followed the departing currency like a dog watching a piece of meat.
“No baksheesh today,” said Tyrwhitt, stuffing the money into his trousers. “Manyouk.” It was his favorite Arabic expression. It meant “fuck you.”
He gathered up the Cyfonika satchel. Opening the back door, he peeked around, then darted outside.
<>
At 0545, the phone rang in Boyce’s stateroom aboard the Reagan. “It’s a go,” said the watch officer. “The strike is on.”
<>
“It is now T-minus ninety-eight minutes,” said Spook Morse, the wing intelligence officer, peering out at his audience of flight-suited pilots. “The Reagan is presently 200 miles southeast of Basra, heading north. By launch time we’ll be 180 miles, and be in the same position for recovery.”
Morse aimed his laser pointer at the map. “Tanking for the strike force will be from KC-10s on these four stations.” Two of the stations were over Saudi airspace, two over the Persian Gulf. “Because of the tankers’ vulnerability, they will not be permitted to go closer than fifty miles from Iraqi airspace. If you come out of Indian country needing fuel, you’re gonna have to make it to the tanker station.
“Our current weather is some high cirrus over the target area, with scattered cumulus between five and ten thousand en route. Right now we have some ground fog along the Tigris River and over the lake region in the northwest, but that’s expected to burn off by your target time. Visibility is forecast to be unrestricted. Looks like excellent bombing weather.”
“More like excellent anti-aircraft weather,” added an anonymous voice.
Morse ignored him and continued. “Combat Search and Rescue will be provided by a force of Marine helos holding offshore —” he pointed to a spot below the Iraqi shoreline “— here. They will be escorted by Marine F-model Hornets coming out of Bahrain.”
Morse’s briefing covered the rest of the mission details: transponder squawks, bingo fuel requirements, bulls-eye navigation reference points, code words, weapon loads, maintenance problems, avoidance of collateral damage.
