With Hostile Intent

Chapter Twenty-Two Trapped

Baksheesh. An immensely civilized tradition, thought Tyrwhitt. The custom of paying gratuities, tips, bribes, in order to accomplish your purpose. It had greased the wheels of commerce in the Middle East for centuries.

He hoped the custom would continue as he slid the five green bills bearing the portrait of Andrew Jackson into the palm of Ibrahim, the night porter at the Rasheed. Ibrahim was a skinny man with a sharp, hawklike profile and several missing teeth. He had a wary look about him, with the narrow, cynical eyes of a man who trusted no one, believed in nothing. Nothing but baksheesh.

Tyrwhitt was also counting on the fact that Ibrahim disliked the safari-suited Bazrum thugs as much as he despised the administration of Iraq’s president. He had lost a son in the Gulf War, and another had returned from captivity permanently deaf, the result of a fuel-air bomb detonated directly over his bunker.

They stood in the pantry, just inside the back service entrance. Ibrahim counted the bills, then slid them into his vest pocket. It was more money than he earned in a year at the hotel.

“Two hours ago,” said Ibrahim. “They were here. They entered your room, then they left.”

“Did they take anything?”

“Like what?”

“A leather bag.” Tyrwhitt gestured, indicating the shape of the Cyfonika satchel.

“No. I think they were looking for you, not a bag.”

Tyrwhitt nodded. It was possible, he thought. The Bazrum agents were vicious but stupid. They might not think to retrieve the articles in his room until they realized he was gone.

He gave Ibrahim instructions on where to search for the satchel, in the trunk against the foot of the bed.

“I will find it,” said the porter. “Stay here, out of sight. It will take five minutes.”

Tyrwhitt waited in the pantry. It was broad daylight outside now, and he could hear the din of honking horns and unmuffled motors on the busy street. The streets would be clogged with the unruly traffic of downtown Baghdad.

He peeped through the drawn curtains and checked the narrow street that arced around the back of the hotel. He saw no agents. No black Fiats. So far, so good.

He settled onto Ibrahim’s wooden stool. He felt suddenly fatigued, deprived of sleep. He knew he would go many more hours, a day perhaps, before he could sleep again.

He slid his right hand into his jacket pocket and wrapped it around the Beretta. It was odd that he felt no remorse about killing the Bazrum man. Maybe that would come later. He’d never killed before, but he’d always wondered how it would make him feel. Idly, he wondered what Claire would think—

Ibrahim came back. The pantry door swung closed behind him. In his hand was the Cyfonika satchel. “Come with me,” he said.

Tyrwhitt rose from the stool, about to follow. Then he stopped. Something, a nagging sensation, warned him.

Ibrahim’s eyes. Gone were the narrow, cynical eyes. Ibrahim’s eyes were wide open, darting about like those of a frightened animal.

“Where are we going?” Tyrwhitt asked.

“To safety. You will see.” The eyes avoided making contact.

Tyrwhitt withdrew the Beretta. Ibrahim’s eyes widened even further. “Who is out there?” Tyrwhitt demanded. “How many?”

Ibrahim’s eyes looked toward the pantry door just as it flew open.

A Bazrum agent, dressed in a dark safari suit, burst inside. His pistol was already raised. A split second elapsed while he fastened his eyes on Tyrwhitt.

It was too long. Kaploom! The first round from Tyrwhitt’s Beretta struck him in the chest. The shot sounded like a cannon firing in the closed room.

The man staggered backward, trying to aim his weapon.

Tyrwhitt fired again — Kaploom! — opening a purple hole in the man’s forehead.

As the man dropped, Tyrwhitt saw the second agent, directly behind him. The man was retreating through the door.

Tyrwhitt fired once, missing him. The agent turned and bolted through the door. Kaploom! Tyrwhitt fired again, hitting him in the temple. The man went down, caroming into the opposite wall.

The spring-loaded pantry door slammed shut.

Tyrwhitt dropped to a crouch and scuttled away from the door. Ibrahim was flattened against the wall, trying his best to be invisible. His eyes had expanded to the size of saucers.

Tyrwhitt listened for noises outside the door. He could hear only the raspy sound of Ibrahim’s breathing. He aimed the pistol at the porter. “How many, goddammit?”

“Only those two.”

You lying asshole, thought Tyrwhitt. Then why are you trying to become part of the wallpaper?

“Where was the satchel?”

Ibrahim nodded toward the door. “They had it.”

Tyrwhitt tried to think. They had been expecting him. And they would not be in a hurry to storm the room again. First they had to close off the escape routes. And probably get reinforcements.

The Volkswagen was parked a hundred yards from the back entrance. Or at least he hoped the damned thing was still there.

He had to run for it.

He looked again at the sprawled body of the Bazrum agent. Blood was oozing from the hole in his forehead. On the other side of the door lay the second agent. That raised the score to three.

Then he looked at Ibrahim, and anger swept over him. I can make it four.

Still crouched, he shuffled over to where Ibrahim was pressed against the wall. Ibrahim’s eyes filled with terror. Tyrwhitt jammed the muzzle hard against his temple. Ibrahim began to tremble.

Tyrwhitt shoved his hand inside the porter’s vest. He felt around, then came up with the five twenty-dollar bills. Ibrahim’s eyes followed the departing currency like a dog watching a piece of meat.

“No baksheesh today,” said Tyrwhitt, stuffing the money into his trousers. “Manyouk.” It was his favorite Arabic expression. It meant “fuck you.”

He gathered up the Cyfonika satchel. Opening the back door, he peeked around, then darted outside.

At 0545, the phone rang in Boyce’s stateroom aboard the Reagan. “It’s a go,” said the watch officer. “The strike is on.”

“It is now T-minus ninety-eight minutes,” said Spook Morse, the wing intelligence officer, peering out at his audience of flight-suited pilots. “The Reagan is presently 200 miles southeast of Basra, heading north. By launch time we’ll be 180 miles, and be in the same position for recovery.”

Morse aimed his laser pointer at the map. “Tanking for the strike force will be from KC-10s on these four stations.” Two of the stations were over Saudi airspace, two over the Persian Gulf. “Because of the tankers’ vulnerability, they will not be permitted to go closer than fifty miles from Iraqi airspace. If you come out of Indian country needing fuel, you’re gonna have to make it to the tanker station.

“Our current weather is some high cirrus over the target area, with scattered cumulus between five and ten thousand en route. Right now we have some ground fog along the Tigris River and over the lake region in the northwest, but that’s expected to burn off by your target time. Visibility is forecast to be unrestricted. Looks like excellent bombing weather.”

“More like excellent anti-aircraft weather,” added an anonymous voice.

Morse ignored him and continued. “Combat Search and Rescue will be provided by a force of Marine helos holding offshore —” he pointed to a spot below the Iraqi shoreline “— here. They will be escorted by Marine F-model Hornets coming out of Bahrain.”

Morse’s briefing covered the rest of the mission details: transponder squawks, bingo fuel requirements, bulls-eye navigation reference points, code words, weapon loads, maintenance problems, avoidance of collateral damage.

When Morse was finished, CAG Boyce walked up to the podium. “I know that for most of you, this is your first shooting war. Put your trust in your strike leaders, stick with the plan. Remember, this is not just another punitive exercise. This is for real, and the placement of your bombs will determine whether the enemy will be able to strike back at us and our allies.”

In his seat in the third row, Maxwell listened to Boyce’s briefing. As he jotted notes on his kneeboard, he thought about the strike. He would be leading a four-ship division of Hornets armed with laser-guided GBU-24 bombs. His second section, on whom he would depend to protect his flank, was led by Craze Manson, with Hozer Miller flying as his wingman. Maxwell’s own wingman was B.J. Johnson.

Some line up, he thought. Two guys who hated his guts and a nugget wingman who had never seen combat.

He glanced across the row of seats. B.J. looked nervous, he thought. She was clutching something in her right fist, squeezing it, unsqueezing. Well, he thought, that was normal. Anybody who wasn’t nervous before they launched on a combat mission ought to have their brain examined.

B. J. saw him looking her way. She opened her right hand and showed him what she had been squeezing: two shiny steel balls. Her gift from Cheever and Miller.

Maxwell almost laughed out loud. He nodded and flashed her a thumbs up.

At the podium Boyce finished his briefing. He pulled a fresh cigar from his flight suit vest pocket. “Okay, folks, that’s it. Let’s go rip ‘em a new one.”

But the briefing wasn’t over. Before anyone could leave, Whitney Babcock stepped to the front of the room.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, taking the microphone, “the forty-eight hour grace period the United Nations issued has now expired, and Iraq has been officially notified that its weapons facilities are subject to immediate destruction.”

“Why don’t we just send ‘em our battle plan?” said someone.

Barely subdued laughs rippled through the room. CAG’s face darkened and he shot a fierce warning look at the offenders.

Babcock appeared not to notice. He rambled on for several more minutes. Finally he said, “The President is confident that your efforts today will show the world that America will not tolerate the rogue ambitions of a country like Iraq. Good hunting, ladies and gentlemen.”

No one applauded.

CAG said in a loud voice, “Strike leaders, brief your people. Everyone draw their sidearms in your ready rooms.” Then he added, as an afterthought, “Try not to hurt yourselves with them.”

A tall African-American Marine sergeant arrived in the VFA-36 ready room to issue the automatic pistols. One by one the pilots checked out their weapons. Though they had all qualified with small arms early in their training, most had long ago forgotten what they knew about the 9 mm. pistols.

The sergeant was not happy. As he watched the pilots fumble with the weapons, a pained expression came over his face. He couldn’t help noticing that Leroi Jones was trying to stuff the ammunition magazine into the pistol backward. Horrified, he saw Flash Gordon peering down the barrel of his own pistol.

Carefully, the sergeant reached over and directed the muzzle away from Gordon’s eyeball. He said to the group, “Gentlemen, take my advice and just keep those things in the holsters, okay?”

“Yeah, good idea, Sarge.”

Maxwell’s own sidearm was the one handed down to him by his father, a pearl-handled Colt .45. He was loading the magazine of the automatic pistol when DeLancey walked up to him.

“Where’d you go this morning?” DeLancey demanded. “You were late to the brief.”

“I had a job to do.”

“You went someplace in the ship’s helo. I want to know where.”

“To check something out over on the Blue Ridge.”

DeLancey was eyeing him warily. “I gave you a direct order to butt out of the investigation. You were to stop snooping.”

Maxwell holstered the Colt. “I found out what happened to Spam Parker.”

The nervous chatter in the room abruptly ceased. A heavy silence descended on the assembled pilots. They stared at Maxwell and DeLancey. DeLancey looked like he’d received an electric charge.

Maxwell picked up his helmet and nav bag and walked out of the ready room.

He rode the escalator to the gallery deck, then stepped up onto the flight deck. Red-shirted ordnance crews were going from jet to jet loading and arming weapons. Every strike fighter carried a full load of weapons.

Maxwell looked around for his jet. It was spotted on the number two elevator, just forward of the ship’s island.

As he arrived at the parked Hornet, he saw DeLancey come marching up behind him. The fury showed in his face. “What the hell do you mean, you found out what happened to Parker?”

It occurred to Maxwell that he could almost enjoy this. Never before had he seen DeLancey look scared. “You almost got away with it,” he said. “The ‘X-W’ on your kneeboard card. It meant ‘Check Winchester,’ right? Funny, I’d almost forgotten the old Winchester frequency — 303.0. That’s what you use when you don’t want anyone else to hear you.”

“Prove it. There’s no record of it.”

“None on the Reagan because you destroyed the only tape. But I found out about the Blue Ridge, the command ship. They still had it in their RF spectrum scan.” Maxwell reached into his shoulder pocket and pulled out a tape cassette. “I’ve got it right here.”

DeLancey’s brows lowered like hoods over his eyes. “That doesn’t mean shit. It could be anyone’s voice on that tape.”

“The legal officer tells me that voice printing is easy to identify, and it’s very admissible evidence. The tape happens to be date and time-stamped, by the way, at exactly the time Spam crashed.”

DeLancey’s jaw muscles were clenching. “Give me that tape, mister. That’s an order.”

Maxwell stuffed the cassette back into his shoulder pocket and zipped it closed. “You’ll get a chance to hear it,” he said. “At your trial.”

DeLancey reached for him, shoving Maxwell against a rack of 2,000 pound bombs. “I gave you an order. I want that goddamn —”

A hand grasped DeLancey’s shoulder and pulled him back. “Hey,” said CAG Boyce, “if you guys want to fight, then get in your cockpits. We’ve got MiGs to kill.”

He almost made it.

In fact, thought Tyrwhitt, he would have made it from the Rasheed without being spotted if it hadn’t been for the damned Cyfonika. He was on Tammuz Street, only three blocks from the hotel, trying to get the antenna extended on the thing. It had to protrude through the window of the Beetle to get a clean signal to its satellite. He had to stop the car in order to keep the antenna at the correct azimuth to the satellite.

He transmitted his message in the open. No more encrypted intelligence reports embedded inside official news releases. The game was up. It no longer mattered that the Bazrum could intercept his transmissions.

He transmitted the news that the Baghdad operation was compromised. He knew that they would infer that Iraq’s missile attack was imminent. He then reported, without being specific, that he was making his egress from Baghdad. He would call again when he was clear of the city.

Just as he concluded the transmission, he saw him — one of the safari suits, standing in the street, holding a walkie-talkie and staring at him like he had just seen an extraterrestrial.

How ironic, Tyrwhitt thought. He had put his life at risk to retrieve the satellite phone because he thought it would get him out of trouble.

Now he was in real trouble.

In his rearview mirror, he could see the Fiat pursuing him. There were at least three in the car. Tyrwhitt could tell that the driver was handling the automobile well. That was more bad news. Now his only chance of escape was to lose this guy quick before the Bazrum scrambled every black Fiat in Iraq.

He sped eastward, across the Tigris and into the dense Al-Karrada district. The streets narrowed, lined with street vendors and produce stalls. Pedestrians and bicyclists peeled away as he blew his horn.

Tyrwhitt was alternately flooring the accelerator, then stomping on the brakes, screeching around corners in a four-wheel slide. The four-cylinder VW engine was screaming like a tortured buzz saw. It would be great fun, he thought, if the nasty little buggers back there weren’t trying to kill him.

Ahead lumbered an ancient lorry stacked with baskets of vegetables. Tyrwhitt jammed his fist on the horn. The lorry driver’s left arm extended, flashing an upraised finger.

Shit! thought Tyrwhitt, slowing behind the lorry. In the mirror he saw the Fiat closing on him.

Tyrwhitt swerved to the left, looking for an opening. There wasn’t enough space to pass between the lorry and the row of vendors’ stalls.

The Fiat was close enough for Tyrwhitt to see the faces of the men inside.

He stomped on the accelerator and roared alongside the lorry. The angry driver yelled and shook his fist.

And then, too late, Tyrwhitt saw them.

Chickens. Crates of them, stacked atop each other ten feet high, extending halfway into the street. The owner of the chickens was gesturing wildly as he ran for his life.

Whap! The Volkswagen plowed into the crates.

Tyrwhitt lost sight of the road ahead. The Beetle’s windshield filled with feathers, flapping chickens, shattered crates, bird droppings.

Whang! He felt the VW sideswipe something — the lorry? Then he emerged from the cloud of feathers.

The way ahead was clear. The windshield was a mess, festooned with chicken droppings and feathers. He looked in the mirror. Behind him the lorry lay on its side, blocking the street. Baskets of vegetables were spilled in the street. A white flurry of chickens flapped and squawked and ran loose in the street.

The black Fiat was not in sight.

Tyrwhitt whipped the VW around the next corner. He was coming into the Babil district in the southeast section of the city. He had to stay off the main avenues, keep working his way southward, then intercept the road to Al-Mussayyib.

After that, the desert.

He again crossed the Tigris River, driving southward over the old Al-Jami’aa bridge. The streets were filled with bicycles and mopeds and battered automobiles. He came to a round-about in the Al-Jazair suburb. The circle was clogged, and traffic had slowed to a crawl.

Tyrwhitt was beginning to relax. It was good, he decided, that it was morning rush hour. The shabby Volkswagen, shabbier than ever with its coating of dung and feathers, was inconspicuous in the chaos of Baghdad traffic. All he had to do now was blend in. Keep driving south —

Fucking hell! A wave of fear swept over him like an arctic chill.

Two of them, waiting at the far periphery of the circle.

One was a marked police car, the other a black Fiat.

Tyrwhitt’s heart raced. He saw the Bazrum agent standing beside the Fiat, scanning the traffic. The agent suddenly spotted the Volkswagen half way across the circle.

He stopped scanning, and for an instant he and Tyrwhitt locked gazes.

The agent yelled to the policemen. Then he reached inside the Fiat and snatched something that looked like a transceiver. Still looking at Tyrwhitt, he began talking into the transceiver.

Tyrwhitt peered around him. He was locked in the glut of traffic. Vehicles surrounded him on either side, in front and behind.

He was about to jump from the car and run. Then he saw an opening. There, to the right, a hundred yards before the waiting Bazrum agents. It was a narrow street, threaded between two rows of ancient stuccoed buildings.

He veered the Beetle into the stream of traffic. Clang! He banged fenders with an old Trabent in the next lane. The outraged driver leaned out his window, yelling obscenities.

Tyrwhitt gave the man a wave. Sorry, mate. Send the bill to Saddam. He pulled in front of the Trabent — Scrunch! — tearing off the front bumper.

He cut across the outer lane, knocking over an old man on a bicycle. A rusty taxi, honking its horn, careened onto the walkway and whanged into a stuccoed wall.

Tyrwhitt jammed down on the accelerator. Gathering speed, the Volkswagen barged into the side street.

And then his heart sank.

The street extended only about three hundred meters. Laundry flapped from overhanging ledges. Plastic crates of garbage lined both sides.

No matter, thought Tyrwhitt. You’re committed. Go for it and hope for he best.

He gunned the car on down the street, knocking over crates of garbage. Dogs and old women and children scurried out of the way.

He reached the end of the street and — Thank God! — another narrow lane diverged to the left. Tyrwhitt swung the VW hard to the left. He saw that the narrow lane extended for many blocks.

He saw something else, coming out of an intersection.

A desert-colored army truck, carrying a squad of soldiers. Republican Guard, Tyrwhitt could tell. The truck pulled into the street, blocking his way.

Tyrwhitt slammed on the brakes and threw the VW into reverse. As he did he, looking over his shoulder, he saw the familiar shape of a black Fiat. The Fiat entered the street and stopped, blocking his exit.

He was trapped.

Tyrwhitt brought the VW to a stop and sat there for a moment regarding the Fiat. Three Bazrum agents, wearing their brown safari suits, climbed out and began walking toward him. He looked in the opposite direction. The Republican Guardsmen were piling out of the truck. A dozen of them, carrying their weapons, were advancing toward him.

Tyrwhitt waited. He was no longer in a hurry. He had sometimes wondered how it would feel when it came down to this. Every game had an end. Over the past six months, usually after several scotches, Tyrwhitt had reviewed in his mind all the possible endings. This was one he had rehearsed.

One thing had changed. His heart was no longer racing. He was calm.

He wrapped his right hand around the Beretta in his jacket pocket. Then he opened the door and stepped out. He turned to face the Bazrum men.

The morning was still cool. A dampness glistened on the cobbled street. On a balcony above the street, a woman was hanging out laundry. The woman stopped and stared at the scene below.

One of the Bazrum agents yelled an order to the soldiers behind him. Tyrwhitt understood the order: Don’t shoot.

They wanted him alive. And Tyrwhitt knew why.

Tyrwhitt gave the Bazrum agents a big grin. Let them know he was surrendering. It was a good chase, right? Great sport, actually. He waved and began walking toward them. The agents waved back.

When he was fifteen feet away, Tyrwhitt pulled out the Beretta. “Manyouk!” he said, speaking in Arabic. Fuck you. He shot the nearest agent in the chest. Firing quickly, he dropped the second agent with a bullet in the belly. He fired at the third man. The round missed, blasting a patch of stucco from the wall behind.

The panicked agent was running, his head ducked. He yelled back at the Guardsmen.

Tyrwhitt followed him with the Beretta. He squeezed off the shot just as the fusillade of bullets tore into him.