Part 1 (2/2)

Morgan noted hundreds of 7.62-mm sh.e.l.l casings embedded in the weeds and dirt, the bullets used by AK-47s, not by U.S. a.s.sault rifles. ”How many men do you have here, General, and where are they?”

”About seventy-five, stationed around the compound.”

Morgan knew 150 Republican Guards had been onsite at five P.M., so the general had lost half his force. In the distance, a clutch of men wearing only T-s.h.i.+rts and undershorts and carrying cardboard boxes rushed northwest, in the same direction the two soldiers had been heading with the cylinder seals. It looked to Morgan that the general's troops were ditching their uniforms, grabbing antiquities, and deserting.

His face tight with anger, the general slowed and glared after them.

”Forget it.” Morgan jammed his bullpup rifle into his side.

With a grunt, the general ran again. The little group pounded past a pile of sandbags toward a long three-story building. The general yanked open the door, and they slipped into a vast exhibit hall. Moonlight shone down from high windows, illuminating shattered gla.s.s display cases, fallen shelves, and empty marble pedestals. It had the feel of a graveyard.

Cursing the thieves, the general led them across the room toward an arched entrance. There was no door.

”It looks b.l.o.o.d.y dark ahead,” Morgan said. ”Light your torches, lads.”

3.

Switching on their flashlights, the six a.s.sa.s.sins and the general raced down the hall past corridors and doors until they reached another large gallery decorated with wall friezes glorifying larger-than-life Mesopotamians slaughtering much smaller foes.

Slowing, the general gestured around. ”This is the a.s.syrian Gallery.” Then he turned to a gla.s.s case attached to the wall. ”And your tablet is here.”

The a.s.sa.s.sins converged. Inside was a brown clay tablet about twenty-four inches square, but instead of Roman or Cyrillic letters, it displayed the wedge-shaped characters of civilization's first form of writing-cuneiform.

The a.s.sa.s.sin who had once been Mossad focused his flashlight on an engraved sign in Arabic beside the display cabinet. Excited, he said, ”This tablet dates back three thousand years and describes our father, Abraham. He came from Ur.” The founder of Judaism, Abraham grew up in Ur, an ancient city in what was now Iraq.

The former jihadist gave him a sharp look. ”The Prophet Abraham, yes.” In Islam, Abraham was considered one of the religion's five prophets, along with Muhammad and Jesus.

Impatient, Morgan aborted the never-ending religious quarrel: ”The only thing that b.l.o.o.d.y matters is getting our money.”

He pulled out the key he had picked up in an Amsterdam drop box two days before, and the general handed over a second key. Morgan inserted them into the double lock, turned them, and pulled open the gla.s.s door. The general stepped forward and pressed what appeared to be a small blemish inside the frame. There was a soft clicking sound, and the entire display swung away, disclosing a recessed safe with two more locks. A safe within a safe.

Again Morgan inserted the keys, turned them, and pulled open the door. Another tablet lay on the floor of the second safe. Everyone leaned forward.

His pulse accelerating, Morgan slung his bullpup across his back and with both hands reached inside and lifted it out. About twenty inches long and eighteen inches wide, it was not clay but limestone, pale, slightly grainy, about two inches thick. The cuneiform script was carved deep and clean. Morgan felt emotion well up in him, not for the beautiful artifact, but for the castle in Yorks.h.i.+re he planned to splurge on.

”Here's our twelve million dollars, lads.” That was the amount Saddam still owed them. The general had guaranteed the tablet was worth at least that much. Morgan tilted it upright for the others to see. ”Let's get the h.e.l.l out of here. I've got a man in London panting to flog it.”

Suddenly a thundering crash sounded in the stairwell. The walls seemed to shudder. Voices quarreled loudly above them, then an arm and head in pink granite thudded down the steps.

”More thieves!” The general dashed inside the stairwell and aimed his AK-47 upward. ”Come down here, you dogs!”

Before the general could shoot, automatic fire rained down. Rounds exploded through the general's head and shoulders, spraying blood and bone. He dropped to his knees then pitched forward.

”Kill the torches,” Morgan snapped. ”We're gone.”

The limestone tablet clasped close to his chest with one hand, the bullpup rifle in the other, he ran back through the dark gallery, the others close around. In seconds, bullets followed, slicing past, the noise echoing loudly. A sharp pain burned across his gun arm, telling Morgan he had been hit. He hurtled around the corner, down a corridor, around another corner, and through a door.

They were in another exhibit hall. Breathing heavily, he dropped to his haunches. The others squatted beside him. The gunfire behind them had stopped. They peered through the shadows across the long room to where two Republican Guards appeared in a doorway. One was talking on his radio, repeating to his cohort that intruders had arrived and they must be killed.

Morgan swore silently. All his carefully arranged plans had gone to h.e.l.l. He could hear the noise of running boots behind them. They were trapped, but he was not done yet. He pointed at the Basque and the Israeli and then indicated the two Guards across the room.

The Basque slid his knife out from under his s.h.i.+rt. It was slender, tapered, and doubled-edged. Keeping low, he padded off past an upended display case. At the same time, the Israeli aimed his M14 modified sniper rifle with sound suppressor.

The two Guards seemed to see or hear something. They lifted their weapons, looking for targets.

The Israeli's M14 gave off a single pffft, but both Guards staggered and went down.

The a.s.sa.s.sins rushed across the exhibit hall. One Guard was dead, a black hole in his forehead. The other was dying, stabbed up under his rib cage to his heart.

The group took off, pa.s.sing through one doorway then another until at last they blasted out into the cool night air. But as they accelerated away from the building, a dozen Guards chased, firing their AK-47s. Orange-colored muzzle flashes flamed into the night.

The a.s.sa.s.sins lowered their heads and pounded toward the children's museum. Morgan staggered, a pain burning across his scalp. A bullet had grazed his head. Hot blood soaked his ghutrah.

The Israeli grunted-a round had pierced his shoulder.

The Basque stumbled-he was. .h.i.t in the calf.

Finally they made it through a towering arch, past giant statues of Babylonian lions, and around to the lee of the building. They had managed to lose their pursuers, at least for the time being.

”We can't stay here. Let's go,” the former Cosa Nostra killer ordered.

Morgan wiped sweat and blood from his face. His head ached like someone had bashed it with an axe. ”Yeah? And where to, dipstick?”

”Out there.” He gestured with his Walther past a wrought-iron fence to Museum Square, where a platoon of U.S. Abrams tanks was stationed. There was no way the Guard would follow them into all of that weaponry.

Morgan hesitated. Unless they were being employed by a government, and sometimes even then, governments were a professional a.s.sa.s.sin's enemy. Still, he stared thoughtfully at the American tanks. It was not as if anyone there would know who the a.s.sa.s.sins were.

”Brilliant,” he decided, ”if we survive that long.”

”I'll carry the tablet, Morgan,” the jihadist offered.

”I'm not crippled, you greedy b.a.s.t.a.r.d.” Morgan glared at him. ”Let's go.”

With the building as a s.h.i.+eld, the a.s.sa.s.sins hurried past palm trees. The Israeli gripped his shoulder. The Russian held his side. The Basque limped badly. The air erupted with the piercing noise of another fusillade-the Guards had rounded the building and were pursuing.

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