‘He may not have worked directly with the fighters,’ Lopez said, ‘but he sure as hell worked with the organizations. He gave us a name: Abrahem.’
Darwish raised his hands in supplication.
‘Such a name means the Father of all Races,’ he said. ‘It is a common name in Iraq.’
‘Muller was likely paid from the top of the organizations, possibly even by benefactors in Iran and other nations sympathetic to seeing the American mission in Iraq fail. He took the money, Dr Darwish, in return for conducting medical procedures without the knowledge of his patients.’
‘Not here he didn’t,’ Darwish snapped. ‘This is ridiculous!’
Ethan slid another picture across the table to Darwish.
‘This was Major General Frederick Thompson,’ he explained, ‘and he recently killed dozens of his own countrymen in a gun attack in Georgia.’ Ethan slid another image across the table, this time of the implant found in Thompson’s skull. ‘This is what the autopsy uncovered. It was lodged in his frontal lobes.’
Darwish looked down at the image and frowned. ‘What is it?’
‘A device that penetrates the brain and allows indirect control of the person’s actions,’ Lopez replied. ‘It was inserted by Muller at military hospitals in Berlin and Basra. We traced the origins of the devices back here. Somebody at this hospital must have been involved. Now, who worked with Muller who may have had sympathy or an allegiance to militant groups active during his tenure here?’
Darwish rubbed his temples as he stared at the image of the device.
‘I didn’t even know such things were possible,’ he said. ‘There is nobody here with even the remotest ability to create or surgically implant these kinds of devices.’
‘We figured that,’ Ethan replied. ‘But who might have had cause to support such an action? Did anybody at all assist Muller in any way?’
Darwish looked up.
‘One of our interns, Abu Hazim, was a major benefactor to the hospital during the darkest hours of the war. He worked here and also gave money to purchase supplies and often brought in casualties from the battles.’
Lopez frowned as she looked at the list of names Jarvis had supplied them with. ‘He brought casualties here himself?’
Darwish nodded. ‘We knew that they were probably militant fighters, injured during skirmishes with the British soldiers based here, but we needed the money that Hazim had access to. It was an unspoken agreement – medicines in return for treating injured militants.’
‘Where is this Hazim now?’ Ethan asked.
‘He still works here,’ Darwish replied. ‘He’s on the wards right now.’
Ethan stood without another word and looked at Darwish expectantly. The doctor took the hint and opened his office door and they walked out together. They were halfway down the hall when Darwish gestured toward one of the wards ahead and a young doctor standing over a patient’s bed.
‘There he is,’ he said, and called out; ‘Abu?’
Ethan saw a short, stocky doctor look at them through square lensed glasses, his eyes fly wide as he looked at Ethan and Lopez and then he whirled and dashed away down the hall.
Ethan broke into a sprint in pursuit of Abu, Lopez alongside him in an instant. They thundered down the corridor as Abu crashed through swinging doors ahead of them and turned left.
‘He’s heading for the exits,’ Lopez called as she shouldered through the door just ahead of Ethan.
Ethan turned the corner in the corridor, saw the sign on the wall directing them toward the exits and Abu fleeing ahead of them. Nurses leaped out of Abu’s way as he flew past them and then they saw Ethan and Lopez in pursuit. Two trolleys and a cloud of medical swab packs flew into their path as the hospital staff, fearing for their colleague’s safety, hurled obstructions out in front of Lopez.
Ethan saw her vault lithely over the trolleys, barely breaking her step as he plunged into them and smashed them aside. The metal trolleys clattered noisily down the corridor as Abu smashed through the exit doors and outside into the bright sunlight.
Lopez shot through the doors just ahead of Ethan, who crashed through them into the brilliant sunlight of a courtyard just as a deafening crescendo of machine gun fire shattered the air around him. Ethan hurled himself to the left as fear pulsed through his heart, bullets impacting the walls behind him as he saw Lopez throw herself down behind a crumbling wall.
Ethan hit the ground and rolled sideways as bullets showered him with dust and mortar chips and he curled up in a narrow recess. He peeked around the edge and saw Abu Hazim vanish down an alley opposite the courtyard, his footfalls echoing away into the distance.
Ethan peered up and saw a gunman on the roof of a building across from the hospital, his silhouette clear against the bright sky as he fired a last burst and then vanished from sight.
‘Clear!’
Ethan leaped out and sprinted toward the alley alongside Lopez.
***
XIX
Ethan sprinted out onto the street and turned left as he saw Hazim dash across to where a dusty looking sedan was parked alongside the sidewalk. The doctor scrambled into the vehicle and started the engine, which coughed a cloud of dirty black smoke before it took off to the east.
Ethan dashed across the street and saw a battered looking motorcycle leaning against a wall. He couldn’t tell if the bike was parked or abandoned, but he rushed up to it and grabbed the handlebars as he climbed onto the saddle and saw an aged old key lodged in the ignition.
‘Not motorbikes again?’ Lopez uttered as she leaped onto the pillion seat.
Ethan reached down and opened the fuel valve, then flipped out the kick–starter and stamped down on it. To his delight and surprise the engine spluttered into life and the motorbike rattled and clattered as he stomped it into gear and accelerated out into the street. A crowd of Iraqi’s shouted curses at him as they sprinted in pursuit of the stolen motorcycle, but their protests were drowned out by the hot wind and the clattering engine.
Hazim’s vehicle had vanished around a corner and left a plume of desert dust behind it, and Ethan turned the bike gingerly in pursuit, unsure of whether the ancient old machine’s tires could take the strain. The engine growled and complained until Ethan straightened up again and accelerated once more.
Rows of palm trees flashed by either side of them, market stalls and donkeys lining the road as Ethan weaved past a battered old van chugging down the street.
‘Where’s he running to?’ Lopez shouted above the hot wind.
‘The southern quarter!’ Ethan yelled back. ‘It’s where the insurgency is the strongest. They’re likely protecting him. If we don’t get to him before then, we’ll both disappear!’
‘Great!’
Hazim turned right onto a main through fare known as Trading Street, a double lane highway heading south east through the city and packed with dense traffic. Ethan followed and began gaining quickly on the dusty sedan as it was held up by the flow of trucks and other trade vehicles.
Ethan twisted the throttle and the motorbike coughed and accelerated between two heavy goods trucks rumbling along the broad road, their engines deafeningly loud as he soared between them and got a better look at Hazim’s sedan. It had once been white but was now a dirty rust–color, missing its rear fender and its windows smudged with grime.
Ethan allowed the motorbike to drift to the left as he pulled alongside the vehicle and looked into Abu Hazim’s eyes. In an instant he saw two things there: genuine fear and the muzzle of a pistol aimed at him. Ethan squeezed hard on the ancient drum brakes and the motorbike jerked as though he had dropped an anchor into the asphalt beneath them.
The gunshot shattered Hazim’s window and Ethan felt the shockwave as it rocketed by inches in front of his head. Lopez slammed into him from behind, caught out by the sudden braking manoeuvre as Ethan struggled to maintain control. The motorbike weaved to the right and he heard a horn blare from directly behind him. Ethan looked ove
r his shoulder and saw one of the huge trucks looming close on their tail.
‘He’s bigger than us!’ Lopez snapped.
Ethan accelerated clear of the truck as a huge, open plan junction with no warning lights or traffic control loomed ahead, ranks of vehicles warring for priority as they swarmed in a chaotic jumble across the junction.
‘Perfect!’ Lopez shouted. ‘Now what?’
Ethan looked ahead and saw Hazim at the wheel of his vehicle, looking left and right as he approached the junction. But he was looking more right than left, toward the busy southern districts.
‘He’ll go right,’ Ethan shouted. ‘He wants to head south! Hang on!’
The junction was packed with vehicles honking their horns and vying for a passage as Ethan braked and allowed the two heavy goods vehicles to thunder past and conceal his path. He hauled the motorbike hard to the right and mounted a ramp onto the sidewalk as he took the right turn and then braked to a halt.
‘Stay on us!’ Ethan said as he jumped out of the saddle.
Lopez slid into the seat he had vacated as Ethan dashed out amid the traffic, ducking low as he sought out Hazim’s battered sedan among the many similar vehicles jostling for position on the busy road. Drivers hollered at him in Arabic as he dashed between the vehicles, and then he saw Hazim’s car appear as it swung in a hard right turn toward him on the opposite side of the road, held up behind rows of other vehicles all heading south.
Ethan stayed low as he reached the edge of the left hand lane, and then as Hazim’s car approached he leaped out and sprinted toward it. Hazim saw him in an instant and swerved aside as Ethan hurled himself up onto the hood and tumbled onto the roof. Ethan grabbed hold of the edges in a grim bid to hang on as the vehicle’s acceleration swung him around, and he looked down through an open sunroof to see Hazim’s terrified eyes stare up at him even as he aimed the pistol up at Ethan.
Ethan had only a moment to react, the scene imprinted in his mind as time seemed to stand still. The pistol was a 9mm Beretta M1951, licence built by the Iraqis as the Tariq. Ethan glimpsed the Arabic writing stamped down the side of the barrel as he twisted to one side, reached down through the sunroof and grabbed the barrel of the pistol with one hand before Hazim could pull the trigger.
The barrel mechanism was hot but Ethan gripped it tightly and prevented it from moving, effectively neutralizing the weapon. Hazim’s eyes widened as he tried to pull the pistol down from Ethan’s grip, but Ethan slipped his finger behind Hazim’s trigger and then pulled hard as he twisted his grip and pushed up from the sedan’s roof with all of his might. Hazim’s weaker arm was yanked upward and out of the sunroof as Ethan pulled him away from the steering wheel. Ethan hauled Hazim’s arm sideways across the roof and slammed it down, bent it at the elbow and pinned it in place as he reached out with his other hand and twisted the weapon from Hazim’s grip even as he heard shouts of pain from within the vehicle.
The sedan swerved toward the sidewalk and Ethan hung on grimly to Hazim’s arm to prevent himself from sliding off the roof as the car slammed into the sidewalk and shuddered as it slid to a halt.
The sound of a motorbike engine screamed alongside the vehicle as Lopez skidded to a halt in front of the sedan and leaped from the motorbike. She dashed to the driver’s door and saw Hazim’s face twisted in pain, his arm half in and half out of the sunroof and twisted at an awkward angle.
Ethan released Hazim and rolled off the vehicle onto the sidewalk as he aimed the pistol at the Iraqi doctor.
‘We need a word,’ he uttered grimly.
Even as he held the gun pointing at Hazim a pair of Iraqi military trucks rolled up alongside them in support, and Hazim’s shoulders sank in despair.
*
‘Start talking.’
The interrogation room of Basra’s police station in As–Saymar was one of crumbling, unpainted walls and a broken–tiled floor. Although in better repair than the old Jamiat station, which had been blown to pieces, it still reminded Ethan of some backwater KGB black prison where criminals and the innocent alike were sent to end their days in pain and seclusion, buried from sight of the world beyond.
That Abu Hazim knew of the reputation of Iraqi prisons was without doubt. He could barely keep his gaze from the two Iraqi prison guards standing beside the door, their rifles cradled in their grip.
‘Never mind them,’ Ethan snapped as he clicked his fingers in Hazim’s face. ‘Talk, now!’
Lopez leaned against the wall nearby, her arms folded as she watched Hazim with dark eyes devoid of compassion.
‘Why did you run?’ Ethan demanded.
‘Because I was afraid!’ Hazim shouted back finally. ‘Because I did not know who you were, because I didn’t know what you wanted with me!’
‘Who were the gunmen who opened fire on us?!’
‘I don’t know!’ Hazim insisted. ‘I have been followed often to and from work by men who watch me.’
‘They must be watching you for a reason,’ Lopez pointed out. ‘I’d say it’s because they know something about you, Abu, just like we do.’
Ethan leaned closer to Hazim. ‘You’ve heard of Guantanamo Bay, right? And Jamiat, the prison cells. You know what happens there, what they went through. We’ve already caught you Hazim. It’s over. Start talking and you might just avoid jail here. Waste my time and I’ll have you sent down for more years than you’ll survive in a jail that nobody’s heard of, where nobody will hear you scream and nobody will care what happens to you.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’ Hazim almost screeched, his wrists manacled to the table top.
Ethan smiled without warmth as he sat down on a wooden stool opposite Hazim.
‘Yes, you do. If you want to have a life when you walk out of this room, start talking to us.’
‘About what?’
‘Start with Abrahem,’ Ethan said casually, taking a chance. ‘When did you last see him?’
Hazim looked up at the mention of that name, his dark eyes filled with foreboding.
‘Who?’
‘Don’t dick us around!’ Ethan snapped as he slammed a clenched fist down on the table, mostly to distract Hazim from his own attempts to formulate a convincing next line. ‘We know about the procedures performed here by Doctor Muller. We know about the implants and we know about Abrahem! He’ll sell you down the river, Abu, may already have done so! That gunfire, are you sure it was meant for us and not for you?’
Hazim’s eyes wobbled in their sockets and he swallowed, his skin sheened with sweat despite the cool air in the unheated stone room.
‘The hell with him,’ Lopez snapped as she pushed off from the wall and headed for the cell door. ‘Feed him to the damned Islamists or send him to the US, let them crucify his useless butt.’
Lopez yanked open the cell door as Ethan got up and grinned cruelly down at Hazim.
‘Have a nice life, what’s left of it,’ he said and turned for the door.
He was almost out of the cell when he heard Hazim’s voice call out.
‘They will kill me!’
Lopez spat a cold laugh over her shoulder at him. ‘Yeah sure, you would say that. This guy’s not worth anything.’
She kept walking down the corridor outside.
Ethan stopped at the door and looked over his shoulder. ‘That’s your problem, Hazim. We don’t need your testimony because you’re not a big enough player. We’ll get what we want, with or without you.’
Ethan turned away again and began walking as the guards moved to shut the door with grim smiles of anticipation. This time, Hazim’s voice shrieked in pursuit.
‘Abrahem Nassir!’
Ethan stopped as he heard the door to the cell close behind him with a metallic clunk that echoed through the corridor. Lopez raised an eyebrow as Hazim cried out again, his voice muted by the heavy door.
‘I’ll tell you everything, please!’ he yelled. ‘I know Abrahem Nassir!’
Ethan leaned against the w
all for several long seconds, making Hazim sweat as much as possible before he turned back and opened the door. He walked back in, Lopez following and slamming the door behind her.
‘He’s making it up,’ she said without interest, ‘anything to save the coward’s ass.’
‘It’s true!’ Hazim shouted, directing a hurt look at Lopez.
‘Prove it,’ Ethan said as he re–took his seat. ‘Last chance, Hazim. You don’t give me something worthwhile right here and now you’ll disappear from history, understand?’
Hazim ran his hands through his thick black hair, his voice resigned as he spoke.
‘Abrahem Nassir is from Basra,’ Hazim explained. ‘He did a deal with foreigners for some technology that they wanted Doctor Muller to implant into American soldiers who passed through the hospital. They had money, lots of money, and they assured him that there would be no direct consequences. Abrahem hired us all on that basis.’
‘To do what?’ Lopez demanded.
Hazim stared at the table as he spoke, at his own manacled hands.
‘Doctor Muller inserted devices into their nasal passages, up into the brain,’ he said, ‘while they were under general anesthetic. That was all. We did not know what the devices were, only that we were to say nothing to anybody.’
Ethan leaned closer to Hazim. ‘Where is Abrahem Nassir now?’
‘I don’t know,’ Hazim replied. ‘I promise that I don’t know. He took off a few days ago and then the men in suits turned up looking for him. I don’t know who they were or who they worked for, but I know where they came from.’
Ethan waited and Hazim breathed a last, terminal sigh.
‘They were Chinese,’ he said.
Ethan’s fists clenched a little tighter.
‘How many of the devices did you insert into American service personnel?’ he asked.
Hazim shrugged.
‘Hundreds,’ he said, ‘thousands.’
Ethan whirled to Lopez. ‘Get in touch with Jarvis, let’s get this out in the open as fast as we can.’
The Identity Mine (Warner & Lopez Book 3) Page 12
