by Gayle Lynds
“Yes, sir?” she said.
“Show me the Tigris River south of the center of Baghdad, east of a bridge and northwest of a refinery,” Bridgeman commanded.
“Bones Howe, this one’s for you,” she ordered.
A freckle-faced young man at a keyboard quickly tapped keys, moved a mouse, and indicated a screen above him to the right. “There she is. The Tigris.”
On the monitor, the Tigris curled like a snake through Baghdad. He zoomed in, following Eva’s directions.
“I’m looking for a yacht,” Bridgeman told him.
There was a series of flashing screens and a boat or yacht appeared.
“That could be it. Zoom in more.” Bridgeman leaned toward the monitor.
The boat’s deck seemed to jump out of the screen at them. Visible were a couple of men working around two cylinders pointed up like cannons. There were corpses, too, that appeared to be lying where they had fallen.
“Thanks, Debi.” Bristling with purpose, Bridgeman turned to Gloria.
“Call Kari Timonen in Baghdad,” he commanded. “I’ll phone Langley.”
“We’d better warn them that Eva and Judd aren’t the terrible villains we thought,” she said.
Bridgeman hesitated. His face darkened. Then he gave a reluctant nod. “You’re right.”
They hurried out the door.
83
Baghdad, Iraq
Treading the dark water, Eva let the river carry the cell phone away. Thank God she had been able to reach Gloria. She looked up and around, studying the yacht. She was not sure how deep the keel was, but if she touched the river bottom she should be able to swim under the craft.
She exhaled hard, inhaled deeply, and dived. Two strong breaststrokes and her fingers sank into muck. She tucked her body to bring her feet down. Breaststroking and frog-kicking, she swam about ten yards, passing under the large black shape of the yacht. At last she saw moonlight glimmering down through the water. Switching to a flutter kick, she rose slowly, keeping a hand above her head for protection in case she collided with debris.
Her lungs ached. She was running out of air. At last her hand broke the water’s surface. Immediately she stopped kicking and spread her arms to slow her ascent. She broke the surface with hardly a sound. She forced herself not to gasp for air, made herself breathe slowly through her nose until she was comfortable.
Still treading water, she turned in a circle. In one direction was the south riverbank; in the other was the yacht, a black silhouette against the city’s night glow. She wished she could see Morgan. She waited, hoping he would dive off and join her.
Finally she rolled over onto her back and flutter-kicked beneath the surface, moving quietly toward shore. As she got farther from the yacht, she was able to see two men working on the mortar near the stern. One was bending over, probably adjusting its supports. Soon she saw a second man, holding a laptop, the screen’s gray glow illuminating his face.
Her butt scraped something, then her right elbow banged a rock. She had reached land. Grass and palm trees were about ten yards away. She clambered up over the rocks and ran for cover.
84
CIA station chief Kari Timonen was sitting in Baghdaddy’s bar in the U.S. Embassy compound. It was the CIA’s fave watering hole. He was just setting down his gin and tonic when two red lights on opposite walls of the bar began flashing, accompanied by an obnoxious buzzer that cycled on and off in synch with the lights. Instantly he was on his feet and heading for the door. Everyone else was, too.
There were occasional rocket attacks, but the compound was built like a bunker, so nothing more than annoyance and inconvenience came from most of them.
Still, a warning of attack had to be taken seriously. As the alarm shrieked, and people held their hands over their ears, they did what they were supposed to do and exited the bar, heading for bombproof tunnels fifty feet belowground.
Hurrying with the crowd, he grabbed his cell to call HQ to find out what the fuck was going on. Before he could call out, it rang in his hand. He answered it.
It was Gloria Feit from Catapult. “Emergency, Timonen. Are the alarms ringing yet?”
“Just went off. What’s up?”
“There’s going to be a terrorist mortar strike on the embassy. It sounds as if it’s some of those new mortars that blow through steel.”
He cursed. “How soon?”
“Any minute.”
“Do you know where the attack originates?”
“Yes, from a yacht in the Tigris about a mile south of you.” She gave him precise coordinates, which he memorized. “Keep your head down.” She hung up.
Continuing to move with the throng, he scrolled through his cell contacts until he found Karim Nagi. Nagi was the liaison to the Iraqi Air Force, which always kept three Apache helicopters and their crews on alert in the military section of Baghdad International. Nagi’s unit should already have received an official alert detailing the attack; Timonen’s call was a precautionary backup.
As soon as he heard Nagi’s voice, he started talking: “Colonel, this is Kari Timonen. I’ve got a confirmed alert. There’s a boat in the Tigris that’s about to shell Fort Knock.” Fort Knock was this month’s code for the U.S. Embassy. He related the coordinates. “Questions?”
But the colonel had already ended the call.
In a central foyer area, Timonen slowed to study the controlled madness of hundreds of people moving at once and sometimes at cross purposes. Despite the embassy’s best efforts, not everyone knew or remembered the entrances to the staircases that led down to the various security tunnels in each building. He found himself grabbing arms, turning people around, and acting as a traffic cop.
85
The celebration in the museum had quieted. Holding their buffet plates, people were listening to Prime Minister al-Lami speak about the accomplishments of his administration. He stood authoritatively behind the podium, a man of moderate height and girth. His muscular cheeks had their usual afternoon shadow. It was widely known he shaved three times a day, but it was not enough to keep the bristles under control. It was also said he refused to grow a beard because it was not modern, and he was a modern statesman, not some Arab just off a camel, a tent folded on his back, his beard filled with sand. This last sentiment about camels and sand offended voters both in the provinces and in the cities. His supporters claimed it was one of the ruinous lies that had been spread about him.
Still, he was a commanding figure on the two screens, and his oratory came through with the clarity of a Bose sound system. In fact, the video seemed unusually high quality, too, Judd noted. There was no evidence of anyone tending to the sound or video, which meant there was a control room somewhere. As he surveyed around, he began to have an idea.
But first Judd needed to find out who had called him. He went outdoors. The night was cool, inviting. When he caught up with Hilu, he lowered his voice and said, “My phone vibrated. I’m going to check my messages.” He raised his voice: “Tell Mr. San Martino I’ll join him shortly.”
“Certainly, sir.” With a nod, Hilu resumed rolling Bosa across a spacious patio to a stone bench and table set under date palm trees.
Stepping back, Judd checked the display on his cell: Missed Call. He checked for messages and found there was one. Glancing up, he saw the Carnivore and Seymour had stopped at the bench.
Judd returned to the exhibit hall. As he skirted the party, he saw a waiter knock on a door at the back of the room. There was a window in the wall showing a man inside, wearing earphones. The door opened. Judd moved closer and watched the waiter deliver a plate of food to the man, who was sitting at a console, adjusting the controls—the audiovisual room.
When the waiter left, Judd grabbed the door, stuck his head inside the room, and jabbed his thumb up in the air. “Good work!” he said in Arabic. He noted the room was the size of a large closet, and the AV system was computer-driven. Perfect.
The fellow pulled off one of his earpho
nes and peered up questioningly at him.
“Good work!” Judd repeated.
Nodding, the technician smiled around a mouthful of food, adjusted his earphones, and returned his focus to the controls.
Spotting a nearby door, Judd walked out into the night again. Traffic was noisy here, but then the museum complex was on the bustling thoroughfare between the central train station and the financial districts. Smartphone in hand, he stepped back into the shadow of an alcove and tapped in his password.
Phone to ear, he heard Eva’s voice: “Judd, I’m on a yacht in the Tigris. Al-Sabah’s men are setting up big-time mortars on the deck to attack the U.S. Embassy. Looks like they’ll start shooting soon. Don’t return my call.”
Don’t return her call? Horseshit. Judd tapped in the number, but there was no ringing on the other end, just dead silence. He tried again. Again, nothing. He hoped like hell nothing had happened to her.
He forced his thoughts away from Eva. Earlier, he had called Kari Timonen to warn him, but Timonen had blown him off. What the hell. He dialed Timonen’s number again. This time he got a busy signal. He tried a second time with the same result. Frustrated, he decided to go back to Bash Badawi. Finding his number in his contacts list, Judd dialed overseas to Washington. Bash answered quickly.
“It’s Judd Ryder. Just listen. I’m in Baghdad and the American embassy is about to be attacked by mortar.”
“Whoa, Judd.” Bash’s voice was strong. “You need to talk to Gloria. She’s tied up right now, but I’ll make sure she phones you back right away.”
The line went dead.
Controlling his frustration, Judd scanned this part of the museum grounds. When they had arrived, he had noted several security guards patrolling outside. All wore small arms on their hips. A few also carried carbines. Making certain his phone was still on vibrate, he slipped it inside his jacket and studied the classic buildings, the sandstone walls and turrets, the walkways. The complex spread across eleven city acres. There were two guards who seemed to have been assigned to patrol along this stretch.
As he timed the men, his phone finally vibrated.
“Judd Ryder, where exactly are you?” Gloria demanded.
“In Baghdad, the Iraq National Museum. There’s going to be a mortar attack on our embassy here—”
“We know. I got a call from Eva Blake, and we’ve alerted everyone there. What are you and Eva doing in Baghdad?”
“It’s too complicated to explain now. Where’s Eva?”
“She was on a yacht in the Tigris. That’s where the mortars are being launched. We’ve located the boat and turned the information over to the Iraqis. When she and I finished talking, she was going to swim for shore.” Gloria tried to sound reassuring. “I doubt she’s in danger.”
“I hope you’re right.”
They said hurried good-byes.
Staying in the alcove’s shadow, Judd resumed assessing the two sentries. One was about to pass him again. He was a middle-aged man with a calm demeanor, a solid man.
Judd ran from the building and rammed a fist into the sentry’s solar plexus, right over his heart. The man inhaled sharply. The blow had made the man’s heart skip a beat and shocked his cardiovascular system.
Before the man could recover, Judd pelted his kidneys then used both hands to slam his head sideways into the ground. It was over in seconds. Judd dragged the unconscious man back into the shadows and relieved him of his pistol.
Pressing back against the wall again, he waited for the second sentry.
86
The museum patio was rimmed by a lush bed of flowers, and the grounds were raked and swept, very different from the war zone of 2003 that the Carnivore remembered. Now that he had manipulated Seymour to where he wanted him, he felt himself adjust, leaving behind the persona of San Martino and his usual cover identity, Alex Bosa. With relief, he returned to himself: The Carnivore. Unique, arrogant in the ways of those who were usually right and able to enforce that right even when wrong. And angry. He had an old, deep anger that seethed just beneath his skin. He knew these things about himself, and he no longer made an effort to change them. For him, age was a respite from the demons of the past, when he had wanted nothing more than to be a hero.
The Carnivore focused. He had Seymour to deal with. With a dramatic sweep of his hand, he held out one of the glass cylinders that contained a cigar. “With pleasure, I present you with a gem from the New World.”
Al-Sabah was sitting on a garden bench, and the Carnivore was in his wheelchair at a ninety-degree angle to him. At their knees was a low stone table.
Al-Sabah took the cylinder and regarded the cigar admiringly. Then he removed the wax, put the open end to his nose, and inhaled deeply. Taking it from its case, he smelled the cigar along its length. “Some art is permanent, and some art lives briefly, like ballet and music and an exceptional cigar. All are important to be savored in the moment.”
“Yes. This is our moment.” The Carnivore offered him a clipper.
Al-Sabah rolled the cigar next to his ear, listening to the fine tobacco, then he snipped the end. The Carnivore offered him a box of matches, and he lit the cigar. A look of deep pleasure crossed his face as he inhaled.
The Carnivore lit his own cigar. The aroma and taste thrilled him.
“I’m in your debt,” al-Sabah said. “This is a remarkable smoke.”
There was the sound of footsteps. They turned.
“I thought you might be hungry,” Judd told them. “I brought food from the buffet.”
Judd exchanged a quick look with the Carnivore then with Hilu. Hilu took two plates off the tray and set them on the table between the Carnivore and al-Sabah. The plates were piled with colorful arrays of cheeses, breads, and saucers of herb-infused olive oil.
“These are René’s medications.” Judd picked up the last item on the tray—a plate with a warming cover. He set the covered dish on the Carnivore’s lap.
The Carnivore stared for a second then understood. Staying in the San Martino character, he laughed and clapped his hands with amusement. “Trying to render an old man’s medication elegant is as futile as putting earrings on a mule.”
The Carnivore was enjoying himself, not just the cigar, but that al-Sabah—Seymour—had not yet made him. He smiled at al-Sabah. “I have a friend who’s received a message from an unknown source. He’s asked me to determine whether you might know who the source is.”
The Carnivore smoked. But as he watched Seymour’s black eyes, he sensed a subtle change.
“And your friend is?” Seymour asked.
The Carnivore ignored the question. “He tells me the last time he saw you was more than a decade ago here, on these grounds, at the time of the invasion.”
Seymour put his cigar in his mouth and inhaled. His good humor had disappeared. His broad bearded face was blank, his gaze cold. The Carnivore could feel menace radiate from him. At the same time, Seymour seemed to be trying to assess how much to reveal, how much immediate danger “San Martino” represented.
Seymour exhaled smoke. “What was the subject of this message?”
“The subject was an archaeological treasure—a cuneiform tablet, I’m told.”
Seymour got to his feet. “I know of no message about any such object. Your friend is mistaken.”
The Carnivore looked up. “Alas. My friend is certain he’s right because, he tells me, you and he are the only ones left, and so it can’t have come from him.”
Seymour frowned. Understanding came into his eyes.
The Carnivore snatched up the dome from the plate on his lap, grabbed the 9-mm Browning, and aimed it at Seymour.
Seymour blinked slowly, hiding his surprise.
“Judd,” the Carnivore said, “Seymour’s bodyguard.”
But Judd was already moving toward the door where the bodyguard stood. At the moment, the Carnivore’s body shielded the gun from the bodyguard’s view, but that would not last.
“Hilu,” the
Carnivore said, “you should take the bodyguard’s weapon for yourself.”
Hilu nodded and ran after Judd.
His gaze on the Carnivore’s Beretta, Seymour took a step back and was ready to take another.
“Stop.” When Seymour settled down, the Carnivore kept his voice neutral as he said, “Excuse me, you and I are the only ones left.”
Suddenly Seymour threw back his head and laughed. Then he studied the Carnivore. A calculating look crossed his face. He gestured at the wheelchair. “Are you really crippled, or is this one of your tricks?”
* * *
Eva was exhausted. Dripping water, she ran into a palm grove and dropped behind a tree. She looked back at the yacht just in time to see a giant burst from the stern mortar. A blinding streak of light shot above the yacht, and a thunderous noise reverberated along the river.
On the northern horizon, a great fiery ball of light and smoke billowed up. The noise of the explosion sounded like a distant bomb. The mortar had launched a shell, and it had hit something big. Judging by what she could see of where it landed, it was one of the U.S. Embassy buildings. With a sick feeling, she watched a second mortar launch.
87
As he had done with the two outdoor sentries, Judd surprised Seymour’s bodyguard, who was glancing occasionally over to where his boss was talking. The man had a strong, youthful face, but his half-closed eyes said he was bored.
Putting on a disarming smile, Judd walked up to him and slammed a fist into his solar plexus. As the man gasped, Judd chopped the side of his throat, interrupting the blood flow for a few vital seconds. He caught the unconscious man before he hit the ground and dragged his body behind a bush.
Hilu had been watching. “You are a scary dude, Judd. You go around building free elementary schools, and then you knock out people. What am I to think?”
“In this case, don’t think.” Judd handed him the guard’s pistol.
