George Murray had been his best friend for almost forty years. They had met as roommates at Johns Hopkins University. They had been Fulbright scholars at Hebrew University on Mount Scopus in Jerusalem. Together they had traveled the world, hunting down rare artifacts, speaking at archeology conferences, begging foundations for grant money, and helping each other write just enough journal articles and books to keep out of trouble. It was impossible to believe he was gone.
Even more impossible to believe was the way he had died. Violently. Horribly. In a suicide bombing less than a block from the White House. How could something like that happen? Murray had no enemies. He was incapable of creating them. Everybody liked the guy, right down to the doorman in his building and the janitors who kept his section of the Smithsonian shipshape. It made absolutely no sense.
What would happen to the project? to the book? They’d been working on both in secret for months. Not even their wives knew what they were doing, how far they had come, or how close they were to the most spectacular archeological find of all time. Could he carry it off without George? He would have to, of course. But how?
Exasperated and out of time, Jaspers finally grabbed his wife’s key chain, removed the spare key to the Volvo, scooped up his bags, and raced out the front door. If he was lucky, he could make it to LAX in less than an hour. God forbid there be any accidents or road repairs. He had no margin for error.
Covered with perspiration, Jaspers threw his things in the trunk, hopped into the front seat, and pulled his door shut, hoping not to wake Leigh Ann or the neighbors with his racket. Then he flipped on the headlights and jammed the key in the ignition. The Volvo sputtered for a moment, as if its engine was flooded.
That was strange, thought Jaspers. He tried it again.
The force of the explosion could be heard for miles.
7
The sleek black-and-gold helicopter gently banked to the east.
It descended to three thousand feet, and the pilots began their direct approach into Babylon. Stretched before them was a skyline of construction cranes and high-rise apartments and office buildings in various stages of completion.
To the east, on the shores of the Euphrates River, was the dazzling new Hilton, alongside the Marriott Grand, the Four Seasons, and the sprawling new regional headquarters for ExxonMobil, just weeks away from its grand opening. To the west were the Central Palace, the famed Ishtar Gate, and the newly expanded Royal Museum of Archeology, side by side with the nearly completed corporate headquarters for at least a dozen major American and European banks and oil companies. And dead ahead was their destination, the Great Tower of the People, the gleaming glass-and-steel parliament and executive administration building, rising seventy stories above the new Iraqi capital.
At a cruising speed of over 140 kilometers an hour, the pilots had no doubt they would reach the rooftop landing pad a good sixteen minutes ahead of schedule. But their hearts were still pounding. For this was no usual test drive, and theirs was no typical passenger. Seated in one of the plush leather seats in the back of the cabin was Mustafa Al-Hassani.
The seventy-five-year-old Iraqi president had said nothing to the pilots on the six-hour round-trip to Samarra and Karbala and back. Most of the flight he had spent talking on a satellite phone or with his chief political aide, Khalid Tariq. The men flying the helicopter were somewhat in awe, being in the presence of one of the few Arab leaders who had actually survived the firestorm, and they were dying to ask how had he done it. What did Al-Hassani know that the others didn’t? Was he a god, as the buzz on the Arab street now claimed?
He certainly looked like a holy man, with intense dark eyes, a long and weathered face, a salt-and-pepper beard, and white flowing robes, and few seemed to doubt he had a spark of the divine.
Widely considered the intellectual grandfather of Iraq’s profreedom movement, he had once been a beloved professor of Arabic literature and poetry by day and one of the country’s shrewdest political strategists and revolutionary organizers by night. He had conceived a vision of what Iraq could be without Saddam back when few thought it was possible, and he had vowed not to rest until he helped bring it to pass. It had gotten him arrested and imprisoned by the Ba’ath Party, and he had been tortured without mercy. But now here he was, sitting behind them, a man who seemingly could not die.
The Iraqi-born but American-trained chopper pilots desperately wanted to talk with this rising icon. They wanted to hear his stories and ask him questions — not just about how he was enjoying his ride, but about his plans for the future. But they knew it was a line they could not cross. Their job was to fly, not to speak, and they could not afford to be fired. So they simply chose to be content with being in Al-Hassani’s presence.
What was particularly intriguing to them was the fact that political, business, and tribal leaders from all over the region were suddenly converging upon Babylon for a series of apparently top-secret meetings.
The pilots themselves had been required to sign nondisclosure forms covering all of their time with the Iraqi president. Moreover, they had heard no specific names mentioned over their radios, but it was clear from the chatter of the air-traffic controllers that these leaders were coming from as far away as Algeria to the west and Kyrgyzstan to the east. They had even overheard a flight originating from Isfahan, Iran, being cleared into Iraqi airspace less than an hour ago. But why? What could possibly bring them all to Babylon amid all the horror going on in their own countries?
Viggo Mariano took the call on the balcony.
“Is it finished?” he asked.
“Almost.”
“What’s taking so long?”
“There are… complications.”
“What kind of complications?”
“None, I’m afraid, we can talk about by phone.”
Mariano seriously doubted that. Both he and the man on the other end of the connection were on secure satellite phones, unlisted, untraceable, and swept for bugs — as were their homes and offices — twice a week. But at this point, there was no reason to take more chances than absolutely necessary.
“How many are done?”
“Three.”
“That’s it?” Mariano sniffed, pacing obsessively and all but oblivious to the stunning views his 2,200-square-foot penthouse suite at the Rome Cavalieri Hilton afforded him.
“Like I said, there have been complications.”
“What about the old man?”
“My team is in place. I just talked to them.”
“Is he back in the country yet?”
“He lands in a few hours.”
“He’ll go through VIP service, right?”
“Every time.”
“So when will you have a clear shot?”
“Highway 1—a few miles before his driver gets to the city limits.”
“What about his security detail?” Mariano asked.
“He dropped it.”
“When?
“Last week.”
“Why?”
“How should I know? All I know is that this is his first trip without guards, without his bulletproof SUV, without a tail car. It’s just an old Volvo and a kid driver who can’t be more than twenty-five. Look, I’ve got another call coming in. It’s them.”
“When will I hear from you next?”
“When you hear the news break, wire the money to my account. I’ll call you when it clears.”
“Fine, but listen to me, Rossetti… ”
“I understand, sir.”
“This thing’s coming from the top, and I—”
“Don’t worry. I got it.”
You’d better, thought Mariano, but he said no more. He clicked off the phone, tossed it onto the lounge chair, and poured himself another glass of wine.