Shaking her head, Dr. Mahuk walked to the chipped metal desk in the corner. Her cigarette smoke followed like a brown ghost. She took a sheet of paper from a drawer and handed it to Jon. Randi instantly joined him, shifting the Uzi out of the way so she could lean closely. Appalled, they read a computer printout of a Washington Post front page:
DEADLY PANDEMIC OF UNKNOWN VIRUS SWEEPS GLOBE
The story reported twenty-seven nations had fatalities of more than a half million. All the illnesses began with a cold or flu for some two weeks, then abruptly escalated into ARDS, hemorrhaging, and death. In addition, forty-two nations reported cases in the high millions of what appeared to be a heavy common cold. It was still unknown whether all or any of those had the virus.
The news took Jon's breath away. Cold fear swept through him. A half million dead! Millions sick! “Where did you get this?” he asked.
Dr. Mahuk stubbed out her cigarette. “We have a secret computer at the hospital. We took that off the Internet this morning. Obviously, the virus is no longer confined to Iraq and America or to the Gulf War. I do not see how the cause could be a biological weapon in my country. The high number of deaths is ghastly.” Her voice broke. “That is why I knew I must speak to you.”
The ramifications of the news story and the pediatrician's revelations shook Jon again. Quickly he reread the article, thinking about what he had learned. Dr. Mahuk had ruled out nearly every possible contact with the outside; still, the virus had exploded into a worldwide epidemic. Two weeks ago, every one of the victims had been alive except the original three in Iraq from a year ago. The velocity of the virus's current expansion was inconceivable.
He looked up from the printout. “This is out of control. I've got to get home. If there really are people in America with a serum, I've got to find them. By now, some friends of mine may have information, too. There's no time to lose―”
Suddenly Randi stiffened. “Wait.”
Holding up her Uzi, she raced across the room to the door that opened onto the corridor. Smith was instantly at her side, his Beretta drawn. She was tense with nervous awareness.
Suddenly from the corridor a harsh voice, snarling in Arabic, became clear. Smaller, frightened voices answered. Heavy boots thudded authoritatively down the hall in the direction of the small examination room.
Jon looked at Dr. Mahuk and asked urgently, “The Republican Guards?”
She pressed quaking fingers to her lips and listened to the words. At last she shook her head and whispered, “The police.” Her dark, expressive eyes were pits of fear.
Randi tore across the room to the other door. With her curly blond hair and long, svelte figure in the clinging skirt and jacket, she looked more like a runway model than a seasoned CIA agent. But Jon had seen her risk her life and succeed in a superb defense against the Republican Guards back in the alley behind the used-tire shop, and now she radiated that same kind of intelligent physicality.
“Police or guards. Doesn't matter. They'll try to kill us.” Randi's head swiveled, her dark gaze summoning them to her. “We'll have to leave through the ward. Hurry!” She yanked open the door, looked back, and motioned Jon and Dr. Mahuk to go through first.
It was a mistake. The police were waiting for them on the other side. It was a trap, and they had fallen into it.
A uniformed Iraqi policeman lunged and tore the Uzi from Randi's hands before she could react. Three others poured into the room, AK47 assault rifles leveled. As Jon tried to raise his Beretta two more policemen burst through the corridor door and fell on him wrestling him to the floor. They were caught.
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
9:41 P.M.
Baghdad
Dr. Radah Mahuk stood motionless, her back to the wall, unable to move. She was brave but not foolhardy. Her job was to heal the sick, and she could not do that if she was killed. Nor could she try to save her country if she was consigned to the notorious Justice Detention Center. Like the dead Ghassan, she was a soldier in a sacred cause, but she had no gun, and she knew no self-defense. Her only weapons were her brain and the trust she had built among her countrymen. Free, she would be able to continue to help her people and perhaps the Americans, too. So she pressed back behind the counter, willing herself to be invisible. Sweat beaded up on her forehead.
Two more uniformed policemen entered from the corridor more warily, their gazes darting right and left, their weapons ready for any emergency. Behind them, a slender man dressed in a tailored uniform strolled into the room holding an Iraqi-made Beretta tariq pistol.
For the moment, no one was looking at Dr. Mahuk. She was not important, at least not yet. Terrified and heartsick, she slipped away into the hall and walked as slowly and unobtrusively as she could to locate a telephone.
In the room, the tailored officer smiled at Jon and said in lightly accented English, “Colonel Smith, yes? At last. You have been most difficult to find.”
He inclined his head to Randi with exaggerated politeness. “And this lady? I do not know her. Perhaps the CIA? It is rumored your nation finds us so fascinating that you must constantly send undercover spies to measure the temperature of our love for our leader.”
Jon's chest was tight with anger. They had been careless. Damn!
“I don't know her,” he lied. “She's part of the hospital staff.” It sounded lame even to his ears, but it was worth a shot.
The officer laughed in disbelief. “A European lady is a member of this hospital? No, I do not think so.”
Angry with herself, worried for the underground organization, and frantically thinking of what they could do, Randi shot Jon a surprised look, grateful for his attempt.
But then the officer stopped smiling. He flourished his tariq. It was time to move his prisoners to wherever they were to be taken. He gave a command in Arabic, and the police pushed Randi and Jon out into the corridor. Doors quietly clicked shut ahead in the passageway as the terrified hospital personnel tried to keep themselves and their charges out of harm's way. The two Americans were marched out through a silent, empty corridor.
Randi watched nervously everywhere for Radah Mahuk, and when she saw no sign of her, she breathed deeply, relieved. Abruptly one of the policemen shoved the muzzle of his gun into her back, hurrying her along, a painful reminder of the danger of their situation. She broke out in fresh sweat, afraid.
The police paraded the Americans out into the star-studded night where an old Russian truck with a canvas-covered squad carrier waited at the curb, its motor rumbling. Billowing exhaust from the tailpipe of the old motor curled upward, silver white in the cold moonlight. Around them, the night sounds of the city were close and menacing. The police lowered the truck's tailgate, raised the canvas, and pushed the two Americans into the rear.
The interior was moist and dark, and there was a nauseating stink of diesel. Randi shivered and stared anxiously at Jon.
He gazed back, trying to hide his fear. His voice was wry: “And you complain about my crusades.”
She gave a weak smile. “Sorry about that. Next time I'll plan better.”
“Thanks. My disposition's improved already.” He warily studied the interior. “How do you think they found us?”
“I don't see how they could've tracked us from the tire shop. My guess is someone in the hospital turned us in. Not every Iraqi agrees with Dr. Mahuk's revolutionary ideas. Besides, the way things are in this country, people will turn on you in the hope of gaining a little favor with the police.”
Two of the Baghdad cops clambered up into the truck. They aimed their big Kalashnikovs at the Americans and indicated by waves of their hands and grunted words that the pair was to move deeper into the truck, far from the tailgate. Pretending defeat, Jon and Randi scrambled farther inside and settled behind the truck's cab on a plank seat. The two armed men took positions next to the tailgate on either side of the truck, guarding the only exit. They were about ten feet from their prisoners ― within easy firing range.
The
officer with the tariq pistol stood in the opening at the truck's rear. “Au revoir for now, my new American friends.” He smiled at his idea of humor. But he aimed his weapon at them ominously as he ordered the tailgate locked into place.
Jon demanded, “Where are you taking us?”
“A playground. A weekend getaway. A resort, if you will.” The Iraqi grinned under his mustache. Then his voice grew flinty and his eyes narrowed. “In truth? The Justice Detention Center. If you do what you are told, perhaps you will live.”
Jon tried to hide a surge of fear as he remembered Jerzy Domalewski's description of the six-story underground torture and execution complex. He exchanged a look with Randi, who sat close on his left. Her face was expressionless, but he saw her hand tremble. She knew about the detention center, too. That hellhole was not survivable.
The canvas flap dropped, and they were cut off from the outside. The two guards sat back, their rifles pointed at the prisoners. There were sounds in front as the officer and other police climbed into the cab.
As the truck lurched away, Jon was silent. Because of him, Randi had been caught. He had no illusions about what they would do to a CIA spy, especially a female one. And how was he going to get word to USAMRIID and the Pentagon to tell them what he had learned about the virus and cure?
He said quietly, “We have to get out of here.”
Randi nodded. “The detention center doesn't thrill me either. But our guards are armed. Lousy odds.”
He gazed through the inky shadows at the two Iraqis, whose faces were fixed in watchful stares. Besides assault rifles, they had holstered pistols on their hips.
They bounced onto a street so narrow that the truck's canvas sides scraped the stone walls.
They had to act before it was too late. He turned to Randi..
“What?” she asked.
“Are you feeling ill?” he suggested.
She pursed her lips. Then she understood: “As a matter of fact, I feel a terrible stomach cramp coming on.”
“Groan loudly.”
“Like this?” She moaned and grabbed her stomach.
“Hey!” Smith called to the guards. “She's sick. Come help her!”
She doubled over and shouted in Arabic, “I'm dying! You've got to help!”
The guards exchanged a look. One raised his eyebrows. The other laughed. They hurled words Jon did not understand. Randi groaned again.
Jon stood, his back bent below the canvas top, and took a step toward the guards. “You've got to―”
One shouted at him, while the other fired his rifle. The shot blasted so close past Smith's ear that the sharp whine seemed to pierce his brain. As the bullet exited out the top of the canvas roof, the two guards motioned him roughly back.
Randi sat up. “They don't believe us.”
“No kidding.” Jon fell onto the seat, his hand over the ear, his head ringing. “What were they saying?” He closed his eyes, willing the throbbing pain to go away.
“That they'd done you the favor of missing. Next time, we're both dead.”
He nodded. “Figures.”
“Sorry, Jon. It was worth a try.”
The truck was turning from narrow street to narrow street, following a twisting route. Its sides continued to rasp occasionally against buildings. She could hear the cries of shopkeepers open long after they should have closed in the hope of one more sale, perhaps their only sale of the day. Sometimes there were the disembodied, scratchy sounds of prewar radios. Everything told her they were staying in the older parts of Baghdad.
She whispered, “They're driving too slowly and staying on the back streets. That's not logical. The Baghdad police go wherever they want. Keeping a high profile is part of the job, but these men are avoiding major thoroughfares.”
“You think they're not police?” He dropped the hand from his ear. The pain was receding.
“They have the uniforms and the high-powered Russian weapons. If they're not police, they'll be dead if they're caught. I don't know who else they could be.”
“I do.”
As he said that, the past week came rushing back, and something happened that he had been fighting: Randi disappeared, and Sophia took her place. His heart ached with every fiber at the sight of her again. Sophia's beautiful black eyes shone out at him, surrounded by the smooth, pale skin and the long, cornsilk hair. Her full lips spread in a sweet smile, showing tiny white teeth. She had that indefinable beauty that was so much more than flesh and bones. It radiated from an inner core of decency and vitality and intellect that transformed mechanics into aesthetics. She was gloriously beautiful in every way.
For one moment of madness, he truly believed she was alive. Just by reaching out, he could gather her into his arms, smell the scent of her hair, and feel the beat of her heart against his. Alive.
He dug deep inside himself, searching for strength.
And made himself blink.
He shook his head to clear it. He had to quit lying to himself. He was looking at Randi.
Not Sophia.
They were in grave danger. He had to face the truth. His stomach felt hollow, like an elevator falling too fast. It was possible neither of them would survive. He could delay no longer.
He had to tell her about Sophia. He had to say the words because if he did not, he was going to slip over into some other world where he could pretend forever Randi was Sophia. He could not allow his emotions to continue these cruel games.
Because it was not just his future at risk. It was Randi's, too, and tens of millions of people who could die from the virus. He could hear Sophia's voice inside his mind: “Shape up, Smith. Just because you decide to live doesn't mean you don't love me. You've got a job to do. Love me enough to get on with it.”
Randi was studying him. “You were going to say who you think the police are.”
He inhaled again, pulling oxygen and sanity into his body. “At the time, I didn't notice. But when they first attacked, their leader said my real name. Not the cover name I'd been going around Baghdad using. I don't see how else he could've known I was Colonel Jon Smith except that he ― all of them ― were hired by the people with the virus. They've been trying to stop me from investigating ever since―”
He made himself see her, not her sister. But as he did, her face tightened as if she realized he was going to tell her something terrible, something that affected her intimately. One more thing she might never forgive him for.
He said gently, “Randi, I have terrible news. Sophia's dead. They murdered her. The people behind all this did it.”
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
Randi jerked erect. For a moment Jon had the sensation she had heard something else… not his voice or words. Her face was frozen. The muscles seemed to atrophy. But she gave no other outward sign she had received the devastating news that her sister had been murdered.
In the shocked silence, he felt the truck's every bump and lurch. Their lives depended on it, so he forced himself to pay attention. The truck's speed was increasing. Buildings seemed farther away, and the sounds of voices and radios receded. They must be on a wider street. He noted traffic sounds and bits of conversation from the truck's cab, but that was all.
His pulse throbbed guiltily at his temples. “Randi?”
Suddenly her face collapsed. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but she remained erect and motionless. She had heard the words, but she could not understand the meaning. Pain seared through her. Sophia? Dead? Murdered? She rejected them. Impossible. How could Sophia be dead?
Her voice was wooden through her tears. “I don't believe you.”
“It's true. I'm sorry. I know how much you loved her, and she loved you.”
Guilt overwhelmed her. His words were hammer blows. I know how much you loved her.
She had not seen Sophia in months. She had been too busy, too involved in her job. Other people needed her more. She had thought there would be plenty of time later to be close and really enjoy each other again. Wh
en they had both done what they had to do.
When Jon Smith no longer took up so much of Sophia's life.
It felt as if her heart were shattering. Angrily she used the fingers of both hands to wipe away her tears.
“Randi?”
She heard his voice. Heard the truck… with a sudden hollowness below the wheels. Her mind quickly shifted, and as if from a great distance she realized they were crossing a bridge. A long bridge with the sound of the truck echoing off water beneath. She heard the rush of open air around them. The far-off cries of men who were night fishing. The bray of a donkey.
And then with an aching rush, she remembered. Sophia. She crossed her arms, trying to hold herself together, and she looked at Jon. There was devastation in his face. His grief looked so deep it could never be erased.
That face was not lying: Sophia was dead.
Sophia was dead.
She inhaled sharply, trying to control herself. Her sister's face kept flashing into her mind. At the same time, she was looking at Jon Smith. She had just begun to think she could trust him. She wanted to believe he had nothing to do with it, but she could not help her suspicions.
His blind arrogance back when he had been treating Mike had led to Mike's death. Had he killed her sister just as he had killed Mike?
“How?” she demanded. “What did you do to her?”
“I wasn't there, not when it happened. I was in London.” He told her everything, from the time he met Bill Griffin to his discovery of the missing page and the needle mark in Sophia's ankle. “It was the virus Sophia was trying to identify, classify, and trace to its source. The same virus I followed here to Iraq. But her death was no accident. The virus isn't that contagious. She would have had to have made a very careless mistake. No, they infected her with it because she had uncovered something. They murdered her, Randi, and I'm going to find out who they are and stop them. They won't get away with it….”
As he talked on, she closed her eyes, thinking about how much Sophia must have suffered before she had died. She fought back a sob.
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