With Hostile Intent

Chapter Twenty-One The Noose Tightens

Tyrwhitt was afraid.

He had been afraid before, but this time was different. In every situation before, he had possessed a sort of cockiness. He knew he could outwit them. It was all a game, and he was a superior gamesman.

But now the game had changed. Before, it had been easy to lose the mush-witted agents assigned to tail him. They were amateurs, always attired in the same drab safari suits, too slow to anticipate his sudden detours through the teeming marketplaces and whorehouses. Sometimes he would let them stay on his trail just to lull them into thinking he was unaware.

No more.

The agents who were trailing him this afternoon from the Rasheed Hotel weren’t wearing the same old brown safari suits. And they hadn’t been fooled by the sharp turn at the whore house. These were trained operatives. They were watching every move he made.

Why?

Darkness had settled over Baghdad. The streets were bathed in a dirty yellow light. Tyrwhitt hailed a passing taxi, a beaten-up Toyota. He jumped in and urged the driver to move out, leaving the two Bazrum trailers gawking from the sidewalk. Seconds later, he saw a black Fiat swing out of the alley across the street and fall behind.

Tyrwhitt directed the taxi driver across town, all the way to the northern souk, then southward again toward downtown and the Ba’ath building. The lights of the Fiat remained behind them, several hundred meters in trail. They passed over an ancient arched bridge that spanned the Tigris River. The bridge was narrow, with barely enough room for two opposite-direction vehicles. Looking back, Tyrwhitt saw the Fiat slow to allow a rickety panel truck to pass.

At the end of the bridge, the road made a hard right turn. For the moment the taxi was hidden from the Fiat’s view. Tyrwhitt crammed a fistful of dinars into the driver’s shirt pocket. “Go!” he yelled at the driver. “Keep driving. Go fast!”

He opened the door and jumped out.

Ducking into a darkened portico, Tyrwhitt watched the taxi pick up speed and clatter away. A few seconds later, the Fiat rounded the corner. Tyrwhitt could see three men hunched inside the black car. They were all peering ahead, watching the taxi.

Still in the darkness, Tyrwhitt pulled on a black, loose-fitting cotton jacket, then put on the kaffiyeh. He removed the Beretta from his ankle holster. He chambered a round, then slipped the pistol into his jacket pocket. From his trouser pocket he removed a Buck switchblade and inserted it in a strap around his right wrist.

The black Fiat did not return, but he knew it would be back when they realized he had abandoned the taxi.

He was a good three kilometers from the dead drop — the pre-arranged location where his contact was supposed to leave the packet of information. They had agreed that it was too dangerous to conduct any more meetings in the souk. The contact — the anonymous Iraqi officer — suspected that he was being tailed. Tyrwhitt had already noticed the stepped-up surveillance of his own activities, the replacement of the gum-shoed safari suits with grim-faced men in black. The game was nearly over.

Tyrwhitt stayed to the darkened side streets. It took fifteen minutes, zigzagging at right angles along the narrow streets, before he came to the Mirjan Mosque. It was an ancient building, erected in the fourteenth century, and now in a state of preserved decrepitude.

He looked out over an empty plaza at the front door of the mosque. It was surrounded by a high wall with a wooden gate in front. Minarets rose from each of the four corners. A pair of yellow streetlamps illuminated the large wooden front door.

Tyrwhitt remembered what the officer had told him: “Look for the southern wall of the courtyard. In it is a niche, indicating the direction of Mecca. Directly beneath the niche is a stone box, half a meter high. It contains a stone that supposedly came from the Kaaba, the central Muslim shrine in Mecca. There you will find the packet containing the information you have requested.”

“What if the packet is not there? Tyrwhitt asked.

“It means we have been compromised,” the officer said, “and you are in deadly danger. You must execute your egress plan.” At this, the officer looked directly at him. “You do have an egress plan, don’t you?”

Tyrwhitt was surprised by the question. He tried to sound positive. “Of course.”

From across the plaza, Tyrwhitt studied the gate of the mosque. A couple of motorscooters and a half dozen bicycles leaned against the outer wall. No one was entering or leaving.

Tyrwhitt started across the plaza. When he was still thirty feet from the front gate, he heard it, then looked over his shoulder and saw it turning the corner.

The black Fiat. Its lights were extinguished. It was coming toward him.

Tyrwhitt tried to affect a creaky shuffle, like that of a man twice his age. He continued shuffling toward the gate.

It seemed to work. The men in the Fiat appeared not to recognize him in the kaffiyeh and black jacket.

He reached the front gate as the Fiat slowly crossed the plaza. He opened it and entered. The courtyard of the mosque was deserted. He peeked through the door to the prayer hall and saw half a dozen worshipers inside.

Even in the half light, he had no trouble finding the niche in the southern wall, with the symbol indicating the direction to Mecca. At the base of the wall, just as the informant had said, was the ancient box.

He raised the solid slab cover. Inside, at the bottom of the box, lay the blackened stone, the relic from the Kaaba.

And nothing else.

He ran his hand around the inside of the box. It was empty except for the stone. He looked behind the box, around and beneath. There was no packet.

Tyrwhitt backed away from the box and tried to think. He was almost precisely on time. The informant had been specific: Eight o’clock. No earlier, no later. Something was wrong.

What if the packet is not there?

The informant’s words came back to him: It means we have been compromised.

Tyrwhitt’s heart began to race. Outside waited the black Fiat and the Bazrum agents. What did it mean? Had the informant been dragged in and interrogated? Had he told them about the dead drop? Did they know?

Of course they knew, he thought. Why the hell else would the Fiat have homed in like the fucking angel of death to this decrepit old mosque? The bastards were expecting him.

But they hadn’t recognized him as he entered the mosque. The disguise — the kaffiyeh and black jacket and old man’s shuffle — had worked. Or had it?

Tyrwhitt again opened the door to the prayer room. The worshipers did not look up at him. At the back of the room he saw another door. He shuffled through the room and tried the door. It opened to a darkened alleyway.

He closed the door behind him, blinking in the darkness. Something — a cat or a large rat — scurried beneath him, making a hissing noise.

He had walked ten meters when he nearly ran into him. The man wore black trousers and a jacket. He wasn’t moving, just standing there watching. One of the Bazrum agents from the black Fiat.

Waiting for him.

Bluff, thought Tyrwhitt. Shuffle on past the agent. There was nothing else he could do. Maybe the disguise would still work.

The agent threw up an arm, blocking his way. In one abrupt motion he snatched the kaffiyeh from Tyrwhitt’s head, exposing his shock of red hair. “Haaa!” the agent said in a triumphant voice.

Tyrwhitt saw the agent’s hand — the same one he threw up to stop him — sliding into his jacket, going for his weapon.

Tyrwhitt didn’t wait. With all his weight he stiff-armed the man under the chin, shoving him straight back into the wall of the mosque. The agent bounced back in a crouch. His hand came out of his jacket clutching an automatic pistol.

And then his eyes widened. He stared at Tyrwhitt in disbelief.

He tried to raise the pistol, but it slipped from his hand. He gazed down at his shirt. The grip of Tyrwhitt’s six-inch switch blade was protruding from his chest. Blood was spurting through his shirt from his pierced heart.

The man’s eyes bulged and went white. He slid down the wall, sprawling into the alleyway. His sightless eyes stared upward into the night.

Tyrwhitt retrieved his knife. He could see that the agent was a short, muscular man, perhaps thirty-five or forty, with a heavy black mustache. He cleaned his knife blade on the dead man’s jacket, then removed his kaffiyeh, which was still clutched in the man’s hand. Tough luck, mate. Better you than me.

He peered in the darkness up and down the alleyway. There had been three agents in the Fiat, and surely they had a radio. He had only minutes left. Seconds, perhaps. He turned and began to run.

The faded blue Volkswagen was still in the shed where he had stashed it. The top was covered with droppings from the birds that nested in the rafters. On either side, wheelbarrows loaded with plaster filled up every square inch of space. The Beetle’s upholstery had long since faded and split from the effects of the harsh Middle East sun. The fenders looked like they had endured a demolition derby. That suited Tyrwhitt. The car looked no different from the thousands of other rattletrap cars that clattered around Baghdad, with one single exception. It’s engine and running gear were in perfect condition. The Beetle could get him out of Iraq.

Outside, he could hear the city stirring to life. He had taken nearly all night to get here. By this time they would be scouring Baghdad looking for the reporter who had killed the Bazrum agent. He had made his way slowly, slipping into darkened doorways and alleys whenever he heard a vehicle approaching.

Now all he had to do was drive away. But to where? He was in the center of Iraq — 375 miles from Zakho, on the Turkish border, which required driving through a no man’s land where he would be prey not only to Iraqis but Kurdish rebels and bandits. The border of Jordan was the same distance but nearly unreachable by a normal wheeled vehicle. Syria was as close as Turkey, but there he would surely be detained at the border and handed back to the Iraqis. And he could forget Kuwait, at least by the direct route. The border was still heavily patrolled by the Republican Guard.

His safest choice was Saudi Arabia. He could drive southward through the desert, remaining west of Kuwait, then enter Kuwait from the south. He might be picked up by Saudi border patrols, but that was okay because they would deliver him to the Americans in Riyadh.

The problem was, the roads amounted to nothing more than camel trails. You needed a jeep or a Humvee to navigate the ancient routes. If the Beetle broke down, he would be stranded in the vastness of the Syrian desert. He and the faded Volkswagen would join the carcasses of the thousand scorched tanks, armored cars, and smugglers’ trucks.

Of course, he could summon help.

The Cyfonika.

You Idiot! Tyrwhitt thought as he stood in the darkened shed. The goddamned satellite phone. He had left it back in his room at the Rasheed.

Tyrwhitt cursed himself. Why had he left the damned thing? Because it was cumbersome, nearly ten pounds with the battery pack. And anyway, he had expected to return to the Rasheed.

Not that he felt any sense of duty to protect the secret technology built into the Cyfonika. But he could at least transmit the news that there would be no further news — the game was up. Saddam’s holy war, for all he knew, would commence after morning prayers.

With the Cyfonika he could tell the agency that he was skipping the country. He could even tell them exactly where he was if the situation got really nasty.

And then he nearly laughed. Why would they come? Why would the haughty CIA consider sending an armed unit into a hostile country to rescue one of their “assets?” He was as expendable as toilet paper. If trapped, he was supposed to do the expedient thing: Destroy his data and equipment — mainly the Cyfonika — and then, of course, himself. Leave no prize for the enemy.

But if they thought he was alive — and about to fall into Iraqi hands…? Wouldn’t his life suddenly have immense value?

He needed the damned phone.

Tyrwhitt could see the gray dawn light seeping through the cracks of the door. It was still early. Perhaps they hadn’t yet connected him to the killing of the Bazrum agent.

He had to retrieve the Cyfonika.

In the pre-dawn coolness, he could see wisps of vapor trailing off the helicopter’s rotor blades. Like all fighter pilots, Maxwell distrusted the whirling, gyrating, impossibly complicated machinery of a helicopter. Too many moving parts, too much to go wrong.

It was a short ride, he reminded himself. In the gray light he could already make out the irregular silhouette of the command ship, USS Blue Ridge. They were skimming the surface of the Gulf at fifty feet.

Maxwell felt the helo slow, then begin its descent to the pad on the cruiser’s aft deck. Half a minute later he stepped out, clinging to his uniform cap in the downwash of the still whirling rotor blades.

Waiting for him was a first-class petty officer, who led him below decks, directly to the SCIF.

The facility was a cave-like chamber much like the one aboard the Reagan. But here aboard the Blue Ridge, which was a command ship, the level of security was cranked up to an even greater level. This, Maxwell observed, was really spook country.

“We’re ready for you, Commander,” said a bespectacled young lieutenant, wearing khakis. “I’ve already pulled the tapes from that three-hour slice you requested.”

He led Maxwell to a console that mounted an array of three-foot tape reels. “We’ve got the whole RF spectrum covered, but I narrowed the search down to the ultra-high-frequency band you flying types use. There’s your headset. When you’re ready, I’ll show you what we found.”

Maxwell slipped on the earphones, then gave the lieutenant a thumbs-up. The reels began to wind.

He listened for nearly twenty minutes. Then he heard it. Urgently, he signaled the lieutenant to stop the tape. “Right there. Run it again, please, the last three minutes.”

Maxwell pressed the earphones to his head, straining to hear every nuance. As the tape played, Maxwell’s head began to nod in understanding. It was all coming clear. Finally he had more than just a hunch. Your first impression is almost always the right one…