The youth listened with rapt attention as the stranger talked about the family’s service to the state. He knew that the youth’s father had been put out of work after the garrote machine was retired in 1974, how he had changed his name and retreated to a small farm, where the family pursued a pitiful, subsistence living, and died, penniless and brokenhearted, leaving a widow and child.
His benefactor wanted the young man to work for him. He paid off the jailers and the judge, gave the grieving family more money than the dead chicken plucker could have earned in a hundred lifetimes, and the charges against the young man disappeared. He was sent to a private school, where he learned several languages, and, after he graduated, he was trained in military skills. The professional killers who took him under their wing recognized, as had his benefactor, that he was a talented student. Soon he was being sent on solo missions to remove those who were selected by his benefactor. The phone call would come with instructions, the mission would be carried out, and money would be deposited in his Swiss bank account.
Before coming to Baghdad, he had murdered an activist priest who was stirring up opposition to one of his benefactor’s mines in Peru. He’d been on his way back to Spain to meet his benefactor when he got the message to slip into Iraq ahead of the American invasion, and there he had taken up residence in a small hotel and made the necessary contacts.
He had been disappointed to learn that his assignment was not to kill but to arrange for the removal of an object from the BaghdadMuseum. On the positive side, however, he had virtually a front-row seat to the invasion, with its resultant death and destruction.
He studied the map again and grunted with satisfaction. He was minutes away from his destination.
Chapter 3
WITH ELECTRICAL POWER OUT in the city, Carina had a hard time finding the squat concrete building in the older section of Baghdad. She had been there once before, in daylight, and not in the middle of a war. The building’s windows had been boarded over, giving it the aspect of a fortress. As she strode up to the thick wooden door, she could hear the pop of small-arms fire in the distance.
She tried the heavy cast-iron handle. The door was unlocked, and she pushed it open and stepped inside. The gauzy glow of oil lamps illuminated the faces of men hunched over backgammon boards and glasses of tea. The thick choking smoke produced by dozens of cigarettes and water pipes had taken only a slight edge off the sweaty odor of unwashed bodies.
The low murmur of male voices halted, as if a switch had been turned off. Although most of the unshaven faces were cloaked in shadow, she knew that she was the target of hostile eyes.
Two figures detached themselves from a dark corner like creatures crawling out of a swamp. One man slipped around behind her, shut the door, and cut off any possible escape. The other man confronted her head-on. Speaking in Arabic, he growled, “Who are you?”
His breath was foul with stale tobacco and garlic. Resisting the natural impulse to gag, Carina stood to her full five-foot-five-inch height. “Tell Ali that Mechadi wants to see him.”
Female assertiveness had its limits with Arab males. An arm snaked around her neck from behind and squeezed tight. The man standing in front produced a knife and held it so close to her left eye that its sharp point was a blur.
She croaked out a feeble call for help.
The door opened with a crash. The arm relaxed around her neck. Corporal O’Leary stood in the doorway, the muzzle of his carbine pressed against the base of the door guard’s skull. The marine had heard Carina over a walkie-talkie tuned to the same channel as the one clipped to her vest.
A Humvee was parked across the street. The vehicle’s top lights were on, and those inside the teahouse had a clear view of the long barrel of the M2 machine gun mounted on the vehicle’s roof. The gun was aimed at the door. A squad of marines stood in the street with rifles in attack position.
The marine kept his eyes on the man with the knife. “You okay, ma’am?”
“Yes, thank you,” she said, rubbing her neck. “I’m fine.”
“Crash course I took in Arabic didn’t teach me how to tell this guy I will splatter his brains around the room if his friend doesn’t drop the knife.”
Carina did a rough but effective translation. The knife clattered to the floor, and the marine kicked it out of reach. The thugs almost tripped over themselves as they retreated back into the murk that had spawned them.
A voice called out in English from behind a curtain at the back of the teahouse.
“Peace be upon you.”
Carina responded to the traditional Arabic greeting. “Peace be upon you, Ali.”
A man emerged from between the dingy sheets of cotton that served as curtains and wove his way around the close-packed tables. The light from the Humvee fell on his pudgy face and fleshy nose. A circular knit cap covered his shaven head. His NEW YORK YANKEES T-shirt was too short for his ample body, exposing his hairy belly button.
“Welcome, Signorina Mechadi,” he said. He clasped his palms together. “And to your friends, the same.”
“Your man was about to stick a knife in my eye,” Carina responded. “Is thathow you welcome guests?”
Ali’s small, cunning eyes surveyed Carina’s body and lingered on her face. “You’re wearing a military uniform,” he said with an unctuous smile. “Perhaps he thought you were an enemy soldier.”
Carina ignored Ali’s comment. “I want to talk to you.”
The Iraqi scratched a scraggly black beard that had bits of food caught in it. “Of course.Let us step out back and have some tea.”
The marine spoke up. “Do you want me to go with you?”
“I’ll be all right.” Carina surveyed the room. “I wouldn’t mind some insurance, however. As you can see, Ali’s place doesn’t attract the finest clientele.”
The corporal grinned. He poked his head out the door and gave a wave. Several marines piled into the room and took up positions along the walls.
Ali held aside the grubby curtains, opened a metal door, and ushered Carina into a room bright with electric lights. A generator purred in another part of the building. Richly colored rugs covered the floor and walls. A television screen connected to an exterior security camera showed images of the street outside the building. The Humvee was clearly visible.
Ali gestured for Carina to take a seat on a platform piled with large velvet cushions. He offered her tea, which she refused. He poured a glass for himself.
“What brings you out for a visit in the middle of an invasion?”
She met his question with a hard gaze. “I came from the national museum. It’s been looted of thousands of antiquities.”
He lowered his glass in midsip. “That’s outrageous! The national museum is the heart and soul of Iraqi’s cultural heritage.”
Carina laughed out loud at Ali’s feigned shock. “You should have been an actor, Ali. You’d easily win an Academy Award on that line alone.”
Ali had learned his acting skills as a professional wrestler. He had even wrestled in the United States under the name of Ali Babbas.
“How could you thinkI’d be involved in a heist like that?” He still used some of the American slang he had picked up from his wrestling days.
“No antiquity of value moves in and out of Iraq without your connivance or knowledge.”
Ali had established a worldwide network of procurers, dealers, and collectors. He had cultivated the Saddam Hussein family, and was said to have acquired many objects for the collection of the psychopathic sons, Uday and Qusay.
“I only deal in legalobjects. You can search the place if you want to.”
“You’re dishonest but not stupid, Ali. I’m not demanding the return of the minor artifacts. They’re useless for museum purposes without reliable provenance.” She drew a piece of paper from her pocket and handed it to Ali. “I want these objects. There’s an amnesty. No questions asked.”