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.