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.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Bandits
At her console in the AWACS, Tracey Barnett uttered a silent prayer: Please, God, don’t let me screw up.
On her tac display she could see the Air Force F-15s, flying high fighter sweep, preceding the low-flying F-15Es to their target at Al-Taji. To the southeast, she saw the cluster of blips that represented the strikers from the Reagan. They were commencing their ingress to their target at Latifiyah. Almost to their targets were the Brits, streaking low over the desert in their Tornado strike fighters.
“Sea Lord, this is Gipper Zero-One,” called the leader of the Reagan strike group. “Any activity on the Purple Net?”
Tracey recognized the voice of Red Boyce, the strike leader. Air wing commanders didn’t usually lead strike groups. But she knew Boyce. He was the kind of commander who led from the front.
“Negative, Gipper. Picture clear.”
Purple Net was the AWACS data link with all the other information-gathering sources. Boyce was wondering the same thing they were: Where were the MiGs?
On her tactical display in the great lumbering AWACS, Tracey could see the Iraqi radar sites lighting up like tiny pen lights. Iraq had awakened to the fact that they were under attack.
“Burner Two, Burner Three active,” she called, “East Reno, ten miles.” Burner Two and Three were SA-2 and SA-3 surface-to-air missiles.
Butch Kissick, the ACE, appeared behind her. “Where the hell are the HARM shooters?”
“There.” She pointed to the phalanx of blips — F/A-18s — sprawled across her screen. “They’re thirty seconds out.”
“Too damn close,” said Kissick. “The F-15s and the Tornadoes are almost in the TA.”
Tracey nodded. It was close. If the HARMs didn’t snuff out the air defense radars, the SAMs would make dog meat of the strike jets. She repeated the silent prayer.
Thirty seconds later, she heard the report: “Magnum! Magnum!”