“They’re looking for us,” Jon growled.
“Let’s go!” Randi said.
The woman carrying the infant hurried off, and within twenty feet slipped into a space between buildings so constricted one person could barely fit. Spiderwebs caught at his face as Jon ran along the narrow passage behind her. Alert and on edge, Beretta ready, he glanced back frequently at Randi to make certain she was all right.
At last they reached the end and stepped out onto another thoroughfare. Randi hid her Uzi back inside her gym bag, and Smith slid his Beretta beneath his jacket and into his waistband. The woman and child stayed ahead, while Jon and Randi strode along together, following at a discrete distance. It was natural— two European U.N. workers out for the evening. But it left Jon with a queasy feeling, as if the past had just slammed into the present and left him aching and forlorn. He kept pushing back the pain of Sophia’s death.
Randi growled, “What in hell are you doing in Baghdad, Jon?”
He grimaced. The same old Randi, as subtle and understanding as a cobra. “Same as you, obviously. Working.”
“Working?” Her blond eyebrows raised. “On what? I haven’t heard of any sick American soldiers here for you to kill.”
He said, “There seem to be CIA agents here, though. Now I know why you’re never at home or at your `international think tank.’ ”
Randi glared. “You still haven’t said why you’re in Baghdad. Does the army know, or are you off on another of your personal crusades?”
He spoke a half-lie: “There’s a new virus we’re working on at USAMRIID. It’s a killer. I’ve had reports of cases like it in Iraq.”
“And the army sent you to find out?”
“Can’t think of anyone better,” he said lightly. Obviously she hadn’t heard he had been declared AWOL and was wanted for questioning about General Kielburger’s death. Inwardly, he sighed. She must not have heard about Sophia’s murder, either.
Now was not the time to tell her.
The streets grew narrow again, with windowed overhangs that shone with yellow candlelight. The shops in these dark streets were little more than cubes set inside thick, ancient walls— not high enough in which to stand erect, and just wide enough for most adults to spread their arms. A single vendor squatted in each entrance, hawking meager goods.
The woman with the baby finally turned into the rear entrance of a run-down but modern building— a small hospital. Children lay sleeping and moaning on cots that rimmed the walls in the entryway and in the wards on either side. The woman carrying the feverish baby led Jon and Randi past crowded treatment rooms, all with child patients. This was a pediatric hospital, and from what Smith could assess, it had once been up-to-date and thoroughly outfitted. But now it was dilapidated, with its equipment in various stages of disrepair.
Perhaps this was where he was to meet the famous pediatrician. Because they were in such different fields of medicine, he had no personal knowledge of him. He turned back to Randi. “Where’s Dr. Mahuk? Ghassan was supposed to take me to him. He’s a pediatric specialist.”
“I know,” Randi told him quietly. “That’s why I was in the tire shop— to make sure Ghassan made safe contact with an undercover agent— obviously, with you. Dr. Mahuk is a vital member of the Iraqi underground. We’d expected you to have your meeting there in Ghassan’s store. We thought it’d be safer.”
The middle-aged woman with the baby stepped into an office with a desk and examining table. Gently she laid the baby on the table. As the infant whimpered, she picked up a stethoscope that was curled on the desk. Jon followed the woman, while Randi paused to look carefully up and down the dingy corridor. Then she stepped inside the office and closed the door. There was a second door, and she moved swiftly across worn linoleum to it. Warily she opened it onto a ward. Children’s voices and cries rose and fell. Her face sad, she shut this door, too.
She took out her Uzi. Resting it in her arms, she leaned back against the door.
As Jon stared, her expression hardened and grew watchful, the utter professional. She was guarding not only the Iraqi woman and baby but him, too. It was a side of Randi he had never seen. As long as he had known her, she had been fiercely independent, with a compelling sense of self-confidence. When he had first met her seven years ago, he had found her beautiful and intriguing. He had tried to talk to her about her fiancé’s death, about his sense of guilt, but it had been no use.
Later, when Smith had gone to her condo in Washington to try to apologize again about Mike’s death, he had discovered Sophia. He had never been able to penetrate Randi’s rage and grief, but his love for Sophia had made it less necessary. Now he would have to tell Randi about Sophia’s murder, and he did not look forward to it.
Inwardly he sighed. He wanted Sophia back. Every time he looked at Randi, he wanted her back even more.
The Iraqi woman smiled up at Jon as he helped her unwrap the blanket around the baby. “You will please forgive my deception,” she said in perfect English. “Once we were attacked, I was concerned you might be captured. It was better you not know that I am the one you seek. I am Dr. Radah Mahuk. Thank you for your help in saving this little one.” She beamed down at the child, then bent over to examine it.
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CHAPTER
THIRTY TWO
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9:02 P.M.
Baghdad
Dr. Radah Mahuk sighed. “There is so little we can do for the children. Or, for that matter, for any of the sick and injured in Iraq.”
On the examining table, which had been repaired with nails and tape, the pediatrician listened to the chest of the baby— a little girl. She checked the baby’s eyes, ears, and throat and took her temperature. Jon guessed she was about six months old, although she looked no more than four. He studied her thinness and the translucency of her fevered skin. Earlier he had noted the eyes were an ivory color and veinless— indicating a vitamin deficiency. This baby was not getting enough nourishment.
At last Dr. Mahuk nodded to herself, opened the door, and called for a nurse. As she handed the infant over, she stroked the little girl’s cheek and gave instructions in Arabic: “Bathe her. She needs to be cleaned. But use cool water to help bring down the fever. I will be out shortly.” Her lined face was worried. Weariness had collected in blue circles under her large dark eyes.
Randi, who had understood the doctor’s orders, asked in English, “What’s wrong with her?”
“Diarrhea, among other problems,” the pediatrician answered.
Jon nodded. “Common, considering the living conditions. When sewage seeps into drinking eater, you get diarrhea and a lot worse.”
“You are right, of course. Please sit down. Diarrhea is common, particularly in the older parts of the city. Her mother has three other children at home, two with muscular dystrophy.” She shrugged wearily. “So I told her I would take her little girl to see what I could do. Tomorrow morning, the mother will come and want her back, but she does not get enough to eat to produce milk to nurse. But perhaps by then I will find some good yogurt for the baby.”
Dr. Mahuk pushed herself up onto the edge of the examining table and sat. Her legs dangled from beneath the simple print dress. She wore tennis shoes and white anklets. In Iraq, life for most people was basic, and this doctor, whose work had been published widely, who once had traveled the globe to address pediatric conferences, was reduced to nostrums and yogurt.
“I appreciate your taking the risk to talk to me.” Jon sat in a rickety chair at the desk. He looked around the Spartan office and examination room. A worried sense of urgency made him edgy. Still, he smoothed his features and kept his voice casual. He was grateful the pediatrician wanted to help, and he was frustrated from his long day.
She shrugged. “It is what I must do. It is right.” She unwound her white cowl and shook out her long dark hair. As it fell in a cloud around her shoulders, she appeared younger and angrier. “Who would have thought we would end like this?” Her dark eyes snapped. “I grew up during the early promise of the Ba’ath Party. Those were exciting days, and Iraq was full of hope. The Ba’ath sent me to London for my medical degree and then to New York for training at Columbia-Presbyterian Hospital. When I returned to Baghdad, I founded this hospital and became its first director. I do not want to be its last. But when the Ba’ath made Saddam president, everything changed.”