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.