As he studied the grave face of Domalewski, what he was really thinking about was the only woman he had ever loved and her terrible, inexplicable, needless, criminal death. For Sophia, he could handle anything. Even Iraq and Saddam Hussein.
He stood up. “Let’s go.”
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CHAPTER
TWENTY SEVEN
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10:05 A.M.
Baghdad
Alone in the backseat of the American embassy’s only operating limousine, Jon looked out on the bustling city and noted with disgust one consistent feature— the photographs of Saddam Hussein. From towering billboards to wall-size posters to framed pictures in dingy storefront windows, Hussein with his thick black mustache and toothy smile was everywhere. Cradling a child. Heroically facing off against America’s new president. Leading a family gathering or a businessmen’s group. Proudly saluting goose-stepping troops.
In this once-legendary land of learning and culture, Hussein’s steel-fisted rule was stronger than ever. He had turned his nation’s state of war into the basis of his power, and the wretchedness of his people into patriotic pride. While he blamed the U.N.’s embargo— “al-hissar”— for causing a million of his people to die of malnutrition, he and his cronies had grown shamelessly fat and rich.
Jonathan’s disgust only deepened when they reached the elegant Jadiriya suburb, where many of Hussein’s courtiers, sycophants, and war profiteers had settled in splendor. As Jerzy Domalewski drove, they cruised past showy mansions, fine cafés, and glitzy boutiques. Polished Mercedeses, BMWs, and Ferraris lined the curbs. Servants in livery stood guard outside pricey restaurants. Poverty had been banished, but human greed was everywhere.
Smith shook his head. “This is criminal.”
Domalewski was wearing a chauffeur’s cap and jacket. “Considering what the rest of Baghdad looks like, entering Jadiriya is akin to landing on another planet. A very rich planet. How can these people stand to live within their selfish skins?”
“It’s unconscionable.”
“Agreed.” The Polish diplomat stopped the limo in front of an attractive stucco building with a blue-tile roof. “This is it.” The engine idling, he glanced back over his shoulder. His face was solemn and anxious. “I will wait. Unless, of course, you run out of there with the Republican Guards on your backside. I have only the smallest worry of this, you understand. Still, if such an unfortunate event should occur, please do not be insulted if all you see is the exhaust from this vehicle’s tailpipe.”
Smith gave a brief smile. “I understand.”
The graceful building housed the offices of Dr. Hussein Kamil, a prominent internist. Smith stepped out into the warm sunshine, looked warily around, and strode through a line of date palms toward the carved wood door. Inside, the waiting room was cool and empty. Smith took in the rich rugs, draperies, and upholstered furniture. He studied the closed doors, wondering how safe he was and whether he would find answers here. Despite the doctor’s apparent affluence, he was not doing as well as he might. Iraq’s economic isolation showed in small ways. The draperies were faded and the furniture worn. The magazines on the side tables were five and ten years old.
One of the doors opened, and the doctor appeared. He was a man of medium height, in his early fifties, with a swarthy complexion and nervous, darting eyes. He wore a white medical coat over pressed gray trousers. And he was alone. No nurse. No receptionist. Obviously he had timed Smith’s appointment to make certain no one would witness it.
“Dr. Kamil.” Jon introduced himself by the fake name on his U.N. papers— Mark Bonnet.
The doctor inclined his head politely, but his voice was low and uneasy. “You have your bona fides?” He spoke English with a British upper-class accent.
Jon handed over the forged U.N. identification. Dr. Kamil had been told Jon was part of a worldwide team investigating a new virus. The doctor led him into an examination room where he studied the credentials as carefully as he would evidence of cancer.
As he waited, Jon looked around— white walls, chromed equipment, two wood stools, and a table painted white where the short stubs of pencils lay in a pottery bowl. The medical equipment showed the effects of years of use without replacement. Everything was clean and shiny, but there were empty stands where test tubes should be waiting. The white cloth that covered the examination table was thin and eaten with tiny holes. Some of the equipment was very out of date. That would not be the only problem this doctor— all the doctors of Iraq— faced. Domalewski had said many were graduates of the world’s finest medical schools and continued to provide good diagnoses, but their patients had to find their own drugs. Medicine was available mostly on the black market and not for dinars. Only for U.S. dollars. Even the elite had trouble, although they were willing to pay astronomical sums.
Finally the doctor returned the paperwork. He did not invite Jon to sit, and he did not sit himself. They stood in the middle of the spartan, run-down room and conversed, two suspicious strangers.
The doctor said, “What exactly is it you wish to know?”
“You agreed to talk to me, Doctor. I assume you know what you wanted to say.”
The doctor waved that off. “I cannot be too careful. I am close to our great leader. Many members of the Revolutionary Council are my patients.”
Jon eyed him. He looked like a man with a secret. The question was whether Smith could find some way to convince him to reveal it. “Still, something’s bothering you, Dr. Kamil. A medical matter, I’d say. I’m sure it has nothing to do with Saddam or the war, so it should be no danger to either of us to discuss it a moment. Perhaps,” he said carefully, “it’s the deaths from an unknown virus.”
Dr. Kamil chewed on his lower lip. His ebony eyes were troubled. He glanced almost pleadingly around as if he feared the walls themselves would betray him. But he was also an educated man. So he sighed and admitted, “A year ago I treated a patient who died of sudden acute respiratory distress syndrome with hemorrhaging from the lungs. He had contracted what appeared to be a heavy cold two weeks before the ARDS.”
Jon repressed excitement. They were the same symptoms as the victims in the United States. “Was he a veteran of Desert Storm?”
The doctor’s eyes radiated fear. “Do not say that!” he whispered. “He had the honor of fighting with the Republican Guard during the Glorious War of Unification!”
“Any chance his death resulted from biological warfare agents? We know Saddam had them.”
“That is a lie! Our great leader would never permit such weapons. If there were any, they were brought in by the enemy.”
“Then could his death have been caused by the enemy’s biological agents?”
“No. Not at all.”
“But your patient was infected sometime during the war?”
The doctor nodded. His swarthy face was anxious. “He was an old family friend, you see. I gave him a complete physical every year of his life. You can never be too careful about health in a backward nation such as ours.” The fearful eyes swept the room; he had insulted his country. “Not long after he returned to his normal life he began to show many svinptoms of minor infections that failed to respond to normal treatment but disappeared anyway. Over the years, he had increasing fevers and brief flulike episodes. Then he developed the heavy cold and died abruptly.”
“Were there other deaths in Iraq from the virus then?”
“Yes. Two more here in Baghdad.”
“Also veterans from the war?”
“So I have been told.”
“Was anyone cured?”
Dr. Kamil crossed his arms and nodded miserably. “I have heard rumors.” He did not look at Jon. “But in my opinion, those patients simply survived their ARDS. Other than untreated rabies virus, no virus kills one hundred percent. Not even Ebola.”
“How many survived?”
“Three.”
Three and three again. The evidence was piling up, and Jon fought back both his excitement and his horror. He was uncovering information that pointed more and more to an experiment using human guinea pigs. “Where are the survivors?”
At that, the frightened doctor stepped back. “No more! I do not want you going elsewhere and having survivor data traced back to me.” He yanked open the door of the examination room and pointed at another door across the hallway. “Go. Leave!”
Jon did not move. “Something made you want to tell me, Doctor. And it’s not three dead men.”
For a moment the doctor looked as if he could jump out of his skin. “Not another word! Nothing! Leave here! I do not believe you are from Belize or from the U.N.!” His voice rose. “One phone call to the authorities and—”
Jon’s tension escalated. The terrified doctor looked as if he might explode, and Jon could not take the chance that he would be trapped in the consequences. He slipped out the side door and along an alley. With relief, he saw the embassy limousine still waited.