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7:44 P.M.
Baghdad
A sharp wind off the desert blew through nighttime Baghdad, sending home shoppers on Sheik Omar Street. The spicy scents of incense and cardamom were in the brisk air. The sky was black, and the temperature was dropping. The bent old woman in the black abaya and face-hiding pushi who had carried the message to the King Sargon Hotel threaded among pedestrians and past plywood stalls where used parts and Iraqi ingenuity for repair flourished. These days, many of the city’s once comfortable middle-class manned these lowly stalls where everything from herbs to hot foods and used plumbing pipes were sold.
As the woman approached her destination, she stared, appalled. Her heart thudded against her ribcage. She could not believe her eyes.
Because the crowds had thinned, he stood out more than he would have under ordinary circumstances. Tall, trim, and muscular, he was the only northern European on the street. He had the same dark blue eyes, raven-black hair, and cool, hard face she remembered with such pain and anger. He was dressed casually in a windbreaker and brown trousers. And despite the U.N. armband, she knew he was no U.N. worker.
She would have covertly studied and analyzed him if he had been any European, an unusual sighting in today’s Iraq. But this man was not just anyone, and for a split instant she stood paralyzed in front of the workshop. Then she quickly continued inside. Even the most experienced observer would have seen nothing in her manner but the slightest of hesitations. Yet her shock was profound.
What was he doing in Baghdad? He was the last person she expected or wanted to see: Lt. Col. Jonathan Smith, M.D.
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On edge, Jon surveyed the street of plywood stalls and narrow repair shops. He had been slipping into medical offices and the storerooms of clinics and hospitals all day, talking to nervous doctors, nurses, and former medics from the war. Many had confirmed there had been six ARDS victims last year with the symptoms of the deadly virus Jon was investigating. But none could tell him about the three survivors.
As he strode along, he shrugged off a feeling he was being watched. He scrutinized the lamp-lit street with its faded bazaar shops and men in long loose shirts— gallabiyyas— who sat at scarred tables drinking glasses of hot tea and smoking water pipes. He kept his face casual. But this section of old Baghdad seemed an odd place to meet Dr. Radah Mahuk, the world-famous pediatric physician and surgeon.
Still, Domalewski’s instructions had been specific.
Jon was getting desperate. The famed pediatrician was his last hope for the day, and to stay in Baghdad another twenty-four hours would increase his danger exponentially. Any of his sources could report him to the Republican Guard. On the other hand, the next informant might be the one to tell him where the virus had originated and what bastard had infected the Iraqis and Sophia.
Every nerve on edge, he paused outside a workshop where bald tires dangled from chains on either side of a low, dark door. This gloomy tire-repair shop was where Domalewski had sent him. According to the diplomat, it was owned by a formerly well-to-do Baghdad businessman who was bitter because his burgeoning company had been ruined by Saddam Hussein’s unnecessary wars.
The store’s seedy appearance did nothing to relieve Jon’s suspicions. He glanced at his watch. He was on time. With a last look around, he stepped inside.
A short, balding man with rough skin and the usual thick black mustache stood behind a battered counter, reading a piece of paper. His thick fingers were stained with tar. Nearby, a woman wearing the usual fundamentalist black robes was shopping through tires.
“Ghassan?” Jon asked the man.
“Not here.” The Iraqi answered indifferently in heavily accented English, but the gaze that swept over Jon was shrewd.
Jon lowered his voice and glanced back at the woman, who had moved closer, apparently to examine a different group of tires. “I have to talk to him. Farouk al-Dubq told me he has a new Pirelli.” It was the coded signal Jerzy Domalewski had relayed to Jon. It should activate no outside interest because Ghassan’s booming company on Rashid Street had specialized in the best new tires from around the world, and everyone knew he was a connoisseur.
Ghassan raised his brows in approval. He gave a brief smile, crumpled the piece of paper between his work-worn hands, and said heartily in much better English, “Ah, Pirelli. An excellent choice in tires. In the back. Come.” But as he turned to lead Jon, he muttered something in Arabic.
Suddenly, the hairs on the back of Jon’s neck stood on end. He spun just in time to see the woman in the long black abaya slide like a shadow out the front door.
He frowned. His gut told him something was wrong. “Who—?” he began.
But Ghassan was speaking urgently to him. “Please hurry. This way.”
They ran from the empty front through a thick-curtained doorway and into a cavernous storage room with so many piles of worn-out tires that they nearly blocked the rear entrance. One stack reached the ceiling. On the lowest mound near the room’s center sat a middle-aged Iraqi woman cradling a baby. Fine wrinkles creviced her cheeks and high forehead. Her charcoal eyes focused on Jon with curiosity. She wore a long print dress, a black cardigan sweater, and a white cowl wrapped over her head and around her neck. But Jon’s gaze was on the moist, feverish face of the baby. As it whimpered, he hurried toward it. Obviously the infant was sick, and all Jon’s medical training demanded he help, whether or not this was a trap.
Ghassan spoke to the woman in rapid Arabic, and Jon heard his fake U.N. name mentioned. The woman frowned and seemed to be asking questions. Before Jon could reach the child, a violent crash sounded from the shop’s front. Someone had kicked open the door. He froze, tense. Booted feet thundered, and a voice bellowed in Arabic.
A bolt of adrenaline shot through Jon. They had been betrayed! He pulled out his Beretta and whirled.
At the same time, Ghassan yanked out an old AK-47 assault rifle from the center of a pile of threadbare Goodyear tires and snapped, “Republican Guards!” He handled the AK-47 with a familiarity that told Jon this was not the first time he had used the powerful assault rifle to defend himself or his store.
Just as Jon started toward the noise, Ghassan ran in front to block him. Radiating hot rage, Ghassan jerked his head back at the middleaged woman with the sick infant. “Get them out of here. Leave the rest to me. This is my business.”
The resolute Iraqi did not wait to see what Jon would do. Determined, he sprang to the open archway, shoved the muzzle of his AK47 through the curtain, and opened fire with a series of short bursts.
The sound was thunderous. The plywood walls rocked.
Behind Smith, the woman cried out. The baby screamed.
Beretta in hand, Jon raced back through the stacks of tires toward them. The woman was already up with the baby in her arms, hurrying toward the rear door. Suddenly a fusillade of automatic fire from the front blasted into the storage room. Ghassan fell back and jumped behind a pile of tires. Blood poured from a wound on his upper arm. Jon pulled the woman and baby down behind a different stack of tires. Bullets thudded into the storage room and landed in the hard tires with radiating thunks. Rubber exploded into the air.
Behind his stack of tires, Ghassan was excitedly muttering his prayers: “Allah is great. Allah is just. Allah is merciful. Allah is—”
Another burst of violent automatic fire ripped the room. The woman ducked over the child to protect it, and Jon arched himself over both as wild bullets exploded bottles and jars on the shelves. Glittering shards of glass sprayed the storage area. Nuts, bolts, and screws that had been in the containers shot out like shrapnel. Somewhere an old toilet flushed spontaneously.
Jon had seen this before— the stupid belief of ill-trained soldiers that brute firepower would subdue all opposition. The truth was, it would do little damage to a target entrenched or under cover. Through it all, Ghassan’s frenzied voice continued to pray. As gunfire erupted again, Jon sat back on his heels and looked worriedly down at the woman, whose face was white with fear. Smith patted her arm, unable to reassure her in her own language. The baby cried, distracting the woman. She cooed soothingly down to it.
Abruptly, there was silence. For some reason, the Republican Guards were holding their fire. Then Jon knew why. Their booted footsteps hammered toward the curtained archway. They were going to rush the storage room.
“Praise Allah!” Ghassan leaped excitedly up from behind his pile of tires. He was grinning maniacally, and fire burned in his black eyes. Before Jon could stop him, he charged through the curtained doorway, his AK-47 blazing.