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…
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.