The Hades Factor Page 23

  In his office, Victor Tremont looked out at the distant dark shadows of the high Adirondacks. He had reassured Nancy Petrelli, but he was having a harder time reassuring himself. After al-Hassan missed Smith and his two friends in the Sierras, all three had vanished. What he hoped was that they had gone into hiding and posed no further threat—that they were hunkered down, afraid for their lives.

  But Tremont could take no chances. Besides, from every piece of information he had been able to learn about Smith, it seemed obvious to him that Smith was not the type to give up. Tremont would continue to keep everyone watching for him. Smith’s chances of doing damage, or even surviving, were not good. Tremont shook his head. For a moment he felt a chill. A not-good chance with a man like Smith was not the same as no chance at all.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  8:02 A.M., Wednesday, October 22

  Baghdad, Iraq

  Once considered the cradle of civilization, the city of Baghdad sprawled on a dry plain between the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers. A metropolis of contrasts, it seemed to shudder in the morning light. From turquoisetiled domes and minarets, muezzin wailed across the rooftops of the exotic city, calling the faithful to prayer. Women dressed in long abayas glided like black pyramids through the narrow byways of the old suq and toward the glassy, modern high-rises of the new city.

  This ancient city of myth and legend had been invaded many times across the millennia—by Hittites and Arabs, Mongols and the British—and each time it had survived and triumphed. But after a decade of U.S.-led sanctions, that long history seemed irrelevant. Life in Saddam Hussein’s shabby Baghdad was a day-to-day struggle for the basics—food, clean water, and medicine. Vehicles lumbered along palm-lined boulevards. Smog stank the sweet desert air.

  Jon Smith had been thinking about all this as the taxicab had rushed him through the gray city streets. Now as he paid off the driver, he looked carefully around at a once-expensive neighborhood. No one appeared too curious. But then, he was dressed as a U.N. worker with an official U.N. armband and a plastic identification badge snapped to his jacket. Also, taxis were everywhere in this grim, embattled city. Driving a cab was one of the few occupations most middle-class Iraqis were already prepared to do: They still had at least one operating family car, and Saddam Hussein kept the price of gas low, less than ten U.S. cents a liter.

  As the driver sped away, Smith surveyed the street again and warily strode across to what had once been the American embassy. The windows were shuttered, and the building and grounds were in disrepair. There was a sense of abandonment about the compound, but Jon pushed on through. He rang the bell.

  The United States still had a man in Baghdad, but he was Polish. In 1991, at the end of the Gulf War, Poland assumed control of the imposing American embassy on P Street Northwest. Since then, even when U.S. bombs and missiles fell, Polish diplomats held forth from the embassy, representing not only their nation’s interests in Iraq, but America’s. From the great shuttered embassy, they handled passport questions, reported on local media, and occasionally passed sub-rosa messages between Washington and Baghdad. As in all wars, there were times when even enemies needed to communicate, which was the only reason Saddam Hussein tolerated the Poles. At any moment, the mercurial Hussein could change his mind and imprison them all.

  The embassy’s front door swung open to show a big man with a snub nose, thick gray hair, and shaggy eyebrows that were lowered over intelligent brown eyes.

  He fit the description Peter had given Jon. “Jerzy Domalewski?”

  “The same. You must be Peter’s friend.” The door swung open wider, and the diplomat’s gaze took in the tall American with one savvy glance. In his midforties, he wore a brown suit that sagged as if it had gone too long between cleanings. He spoke in Polish-accented English. “Come in. No point in making ourselves into bigger targets than we already are.” He closed the door behind Jon and led him across a marble foyer into a large office. “You are sure no one followed you?” He liked the level look in the stranger’s dark blue eyes and the sense of physical power he radiated. He would need both attributes in perilous Baghdad.

  Instantly Smith caught the whiff of fear. “MI6 knows what it’s doing. I won’t bore you with the circuitous route they used to get me into the country.”

  “Good. Do not tell me.” Domalewski nodded as he closed the office door. “There are secrets no one should know. Not even me.” He gave a small, wry smile. “Take a chair. You must be weary. That one with the arms is comfortable. Still has its springs.” As Jon sat, the diplomat continued on to the window where he cracked open the shutter and stared outside at the morning. “We must be so careful.”

  Jon crossed his legs. Domalewski was correct: He was tired. But he also felt a pounding need to get on with his investigation. Sophia’s beautiful face and the agony of her death haunted him.

  Three days ago, he had arrived at London’s Heathrow airport in the early hours of the morning dressed in new civilian clothes he had bought in San Francisco. It was the beginning of a long, grueling journey. At Heathrow, an MI6 agent sneaked him into a military ambulance that had whisked him to some RAF base in East Anglia. From there he had been flown to a desert airstrip in Saudi Arabia and picked up by a nameless and taciturn British SAS corporal dressed in long Bedouin robes who spoke perfect Arabic.

  “Put these on.” He tossed Jon robes identical to his. “We’re going to take advantage of a little-known prewar agreement.” It turned out he was talking about the Iraqi-Saudi Arabian Neutral Zone, which the two nations still maintained so their nomadic Bedouins could continue their historic trade routes.

  In the sweltering robes, Jon and the corporal were handed from Bedouin camp to Bedouin camp by the Iraqi underground until on the outskirts of Baghdad the corporal surprised him with fake identity papers. Iraqi dinars, Western clothing, and a badge and armband for a U.N. worker from Belize. Jon’s cover name was Mark Bonnet.

  He had shaken his head, amazed at MI6’s thoroughness. “You’ve been holding out.”

  “Hell, no,” the corporal said indignantly. “Didn’t know whether you’d make it. No point wasting good ID on a bloody corpse.” He pumped Jon’s hand in farewell. “If you ever see that arse Peter Howell again, tell him he owes us all a whopper.”

  Now Jon sat in the former American embassy, dressed like a typical U.N. worker in his brown cotton slacks, short-sleeved shirt, zippered jacket, and the all-important U.N. armband and badge. He had money and additional identification in his pocket.

  “Do not take our concern personally,” Domalewski was saying as he continued to study the street. “You cannot blame us for not being especially enthusiastic about helping you.”

  “Of course. But be assured—this may be the most crucial risk you’ve ever taken.”

  Domalewski nodded his shaggy head. “That was in the message from Peter. He also gave me a list of doctors and hospitals you wished to visit.” The Pole turned from the window, his thick eyebrows raised. Again he considered the American. His old friend Peter Howell had said this man was a medical doctor. But could he handle himself if violence struck? It was true that from his high-planed face to his broad shoulders and trim waist, he looked more like a sniper than a healer. Domalewski considered himself an apt judge of people, and from everything he could see about this undercover American, perhaps Peter had been right.

  Jon asked, “You’ve arranged meetings?”

  “Of course. I will drive myself to some. Others you must handle yourself.” The diplomat’s voice became a warning: “But remember your U.N. credentials will be useless if you fall into the government’s hands. This is a police state. Many citizens are armed, and anyone can be a spy. Hussein’s private police force—the Republican Guard—is as brutal and powerful as the SS and Gestapo combined. They’re always sniffing for enemies of the state, dissenters, or simply someone whose looks they do not like.”

  “I understand they can be random.”

  “Ah, so you do know
something about Iraq.”

  “A bit.” Smith nodded grimly.

  Domalewski cocked his head, continuing to appraise the American. He went behind his desk and pulled out a drawer. “Sometimes the greatest danger is the very arbitrariness of it all. Violence here erupts in a heartbeat, often for no logical reason. Peter said you should have this.”

  He sat in an armchair next to Jon and held out another U.S. Army Beretta.

  Smith took it eagerly. “He thinks of everything.”

  “As my father and I both found in our time.”

  “Then you’ve worked with him before.”

  “More than once. Which is why I am doing him the favor of helping you.”

  He had wondered why Domalewski had agreed. “Thanks to both of you.”

  “I hope you will still thank us tomorrow or the next day. Peter says you are adequate with the Beretta. Do not hesitate to use it if you must. However, remember any foreigner caught with a gun will be arrested.”

  “I appreciate the warning. I plan to avoid that.”

  “Good. Have you heard about the Justice Detention Center?”

  “Sorry, no.”

  Domalewski’s voice dropped, and horror infused his words. “The existence of the detention center was confirmed just recently. It is six stories deep into the ground. Imagine that—no windows for the world to look in, no exterior walls for the cries of the tormented to be heard through, and no hope of escape. Iraqi military intelligence built it under the hospital near the al-Rashid military camp south of here. They say Qusai, Saddam’s insane son, supervised the design and construction himself. Military officers and personnel who displease Saddam have an entire floor of torture and execution chambers reserved for them. Other prisoners can be sent to a level where they officially do not exist. They cannot be asked about. Their names cannot even be mentioned. Those sad creatures are disappeared and lost forever. But for me, the worst part of the underground building … the most grisly and somehow savage … is on the bottom floor. There Saddam has not only dungeons but an appalling fifty-two gallows.”

  Jon repressed a shudder. “Good God. Fifty-two gallows? Mass executions. He hangs fifty-two at a time? The whole place sounds like a piece of hell. The man’s an animal!”

  “Exactly. Remember, it is better to use the gun than to be caught with it. At best, the confusion might give you a chance.” He hesitated. He clasped his hands and looked up at Jon, his eyes dark with concern. “You are undercover, unofficial, and unprotected. Oh, yes, they would arrest you, and, if you were very lucky, they would kill you quickly.”

  “I understand.”

  “If you still wish to proceed, you have a lot of territory to cover today. We must leave immediately.”

  For a brief hallucinogenic moment, in his mind Smith saw Sophia’s tortured face as she fought to live. The glistening sweat on her flushed cheeks … her silky hair matted down … her quivering fingers desperately reaching for her throat as she tried to breathe. Her pain had been excruciating.

  As he studied the grave face of Domalewski, what he was really thinking about was the only woman he had ever loved and her terrible, inexplicable, needless, criminal death. For Sophia, he could handle anything. Even Iraq and Saddam Hussein.

  He stood up. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  10:05 A.M.

  Baghdad

  Alone in the backseat of the American embassy’s only operating limousine, Jon looked out on the bustling city and noted with disgust one consistent feature—the photographs of Saddam Hussein. From towering billboards to wall-size posters to framed pictures in dingy storefront windows, Hussein with his thick black mustache and toothy smile was everywhere. Cradling a child. Heroically facing off against America’s new president. Leading a family gathering or a businessmen’s group. Proudly saluting goose-stepping troops.

  In this once-legendary land of learning and culture, Hussein’s steelfisted rule was stronger than ever. He had turned his nation’s state of war into the basis of his power, and the wretchedness of his people into patriotic pride. While he blamed the U.N.’s embargo—“al-hissar”—for causing a million of his people to die of malnutrition, he and his cronies had grown shamelessly fat and rich.

  Jonathan’s disgust only deepened when they reached the elegant Jadiriya suburb, where many of Hussein’s courtiers, sycophants, and war profiteers had settled in splendor. As Jerzy Domalewski drove, they cruised past showy mansions, fine cafés, and glitzy boutiques. Polished Mercedeses, BMWs, and Ferraris lined the curbs. Servants in livery stood guard outside pricey restaurants. Poverty had been banished, but human greed was everywhere.

  Smith shook his head. “This is criminal.”

  Domalewski was wearing a chauffeur’s cap and jacket. “Considering what the rest of Baghdad looks like, entering Jadiriya is akin to landing on another planet. A very rich planet. How can these people stand to live within their selfish skins?”

  “It’s unconscionable.”

  “Agreed.” The Polish diplomat stopped the limo in front of an attractive stucco building with a blue-tile roof. “This is it.” The engine idling, he glanced back over his shoulder. His face was solemn and anxious. “I will wait. Unless, of course, you run out of there with the Republican Guards on your backside. I have only the smallest worry of this, you understand. Still, if such an unfortunate event should occur, please do not be insulted if all you see is the exhaust from this vehicle’s tailpipe.”

  Smith gave a brief smile. “I understand.”

  The graceful building housed the offices of Dr. Hussein Kamil, a prominent internist. Smith stepped out into the warm sunshine, looked warily around, and strode through a line of date palms toward the carved wood door. Inside, the waiting room was cool and empty. Smith took in the rich rugs, draperies, and upholstered furniture. He studied the closed doors, wondering how safe he was and whether he would find answers here. Despite the doctor’s apparent affluence, he was not doing as well as he might. Iraq’s economic isolation showed in small ways. The draperies were faded and the furniture worn. The magazines on the side tables were five and ten years old.

  One of the doors opened, and the doctor appeared. He was a man of medium height, in his early fifties, with a swarthy complexion and nervous, darting eyes. He wore a white medical coat over pressed gray trousers. And he was alone. No nurse. No receptionist. Obviously he had timed Smith’s appointment to make certain no one would witness it.

  “Dr. Kamil.” Jon introduced himself by the fake name on his U.N. papers—Mark Bonnet.

  The doctor inclined his head politely, but his voice was low and uneasy. “You have your bona fides?” He spoke English with a British upper-class accent.

  Jon handed over the forged U.N. identification. Dr. Kamil had been told Jon was part of a worldwide team investigating a new virus. The doctor led him into an examination room where he studied the credentials as carefully as he would evidence of cancer.

  As he waited, Jon looked around—white walls, chromed equipment, two wood stools, and a table painted white where the short stubs of pencils lay in a pottery bowl. The medical equipment showed the effects of years of use without replacement. Everything was clean and shiny, but there were empty stands where test tubes should be waiting. The white cloth that covered the examination table was thin and eaten with tiny holes. Some of the equipment was very out of date. That would not be the only problem this doctor—all the doctors of Iraq—faced. Domalewski had said many were graduates of the world’s finest medical schools and continued to provide good diagnoses, but their patients had to find their own drugs. Medicine was available mostly on the black market and not for dinars. Only for U.S. dollars. Even the elite had trouble, although they were willing to pay astronomical sums.

  Finally the doctor returned the paperwork. He did not invite Jon to sit, and he did not sit himself. They stood in the middle of the spartan, run-down room and conversed, two suspicious strangers.

  The doctor said, “Wha
t exactly is it you wish to know?”

  “You agreed to talk to me, Doctor. I assume you know what you wanted to say.”

  The doctor waved that off. “I cannot be too careful. I am close to our great leader. Many members of the Revolutionary Council are my patients.”

  Jon eyed him. He looked like a man with a secret. The question was whether Smith could find some way to convince him to reveal it. “Still, something’s bothering you, Dr. Kamil. A medical matter, I’d say. I’m sure it has nothing to do with Saddam or the war, so it should be no danger to either of us to discuss it a moment. Perhaps,” he said carefully, “it’s the deaths from an unknown virus.”

  Dr. Kamil chewed on his lower lip. His ebony eyes were troubled. He glanced almost pleadingly around as if he feared the walls themselves would betray him. But he was also an educated man. So he sighed and admitted, “A year ago I treated a patient who died of sudden acute respiratory distress syndrome with hemorrhaging from the lungs. He had contracted what appeared to be a heavy cold two weeks before the ARDS.”

  Jon repressed excitement. They were the same symptoms as the victims in the United States. “Was he a veteran of Desert Storm?”

  The doctor’s eyes radiated fear. “Do not say that!” he whispered. “He had the honor of fighting with the Republican Guard during the Glorious War of Unification!”

  “Any chance his death resulted from biological warfare agents? We know Saddam had them.”

  “That is a lie! Our great leader would never permit such weapons. If there were any, they were brought in by the enemy.”

  “Then could his death have been caused by the enemy’s biological agents?”

  “No. Not at all.”

  “But your patient was infected sometime during the war?”

  The doctor nodded. His swarthy face was anxious. “He was an old family friend, you see. I gave him a complete physical every year of his life. You can never be too careful about health in a backward nation such as ours.” The fearful eyes swept the room; he had insulted his country. “Not long after he returned to his normal life he began to show many symptoms of minor infections that failed to respond to normal treatment but disappeared anyway. Over the years, he had increasing fevers and brief flulike episodes. Then he developed the heavy cold and died abruptly.”