Part 32 (1/2)
Judd was silent, feeling a cold wash of fear for Eva.
”I should've been a general,” Hilu announced brightly behind them. ”I've just orchestrated a magnificent campaign to get us inside the museum compound. We're going to have to change both of your appearances, but I'm hopeful we can make this work.”
78.
The river reeked, stinging Eva's nose. Garbage bobbed on the surface, visible in the light of the moon and the bright mercury vapor lights of a refinery near the beach. She was seated on the deck of a yacht near the bow, her back to a metal post bolted to the wood planking. Her hands were bound tightly behind the post. She struggled against them. The ribs on her right side ached. Inwardly she cursed.
”We should've disconnected the SUV's b.l.o.o.d.y air bags.” Morgan was tied to a post six feet away from her. His cadaverous face was gray in the light.
”This is a new experience I would've happily skipped.” She twisted her wrists, hoping the rope would loosen, but all she accomplished was giving herself rope burn and a sharp pain in the ribs.
Repressing the discomfort, she studied the riverbank. It was not moving, which meant the yacht was probably anch.o.r.ed. Judging from the gradual flow of the refuse and the location of the moon, the river was running west to east here. Downriver, a bridge carried traffic across to the greatest glow of light in the night sky-the city's center, to the north. Other than the refinery, she could see no other lights near them.
The six Iraqi men onboard were making such a racket that the bank along this portion of the river must be as isolated as it was dark. Three were opening wood crates on the deck with pry bars, hammers, and axes, and unpacking them quickly and noisily. Metal parts thudded and clanked as they landed on the deck. Eva wondered why the men had bothered to dress in dark clothing; anyone close enough to see them would hear them first.
One man handed small crates up onto the deck from the dory that had delivered Eva and Morgan to the yacht. Two men wrestled with what looked to Eva like an enormous sewage pipe, perhaps six feet long.
She had an un.o.bstructed view of the Iraqis' operation because the deck between her and them was open and empty, no masts or superstructure except for the wheelhouse toward the stern. When they had arrived, there had been a dozen small tables, stackable chairs, and benches. While some of the men opened crates, others had quickly pushed the furniture to both sides of the deck.
”A party boat,” Morgan had explained.
The crates emptied, the men broke into two groups of three and began a.s.sembling some kind of equipment.
”What are they doing?” Eva asked.
”See those long tubes? Looks to me as if the Iraqis are setting up mortars. If I'm right, they're huge, the kind you have to tow behind a truck.”
Moments later, the three at one of the positions joined the other team and lifted a tube into a nearly vertical position. It was taller than the tallest of the men holding it, close to seven feet. While they stabilized it, the others secured parts to its side and base. Once the gun was up, they went to work at the other site.
”So you're a munitions expert now,” Eva said. ”I thought you only slit people's throats.”
”I slit the throats of the disrespectful, so remember that.” He was silent for a moment, perhaps mulling over Eva's sarcasm. ”Let's just say I've made mortars a hobby and found them useful. The ones here look like 150- or 160-millimeter.”
Once again the Iraqi men split up; some headed back to their individual guns while others returned to the unopened crates. As the men broke open the crates, Eva could see more cylinders, this time smaller-and they had fins. The men carried them to the mortar positions and stacked them.
”Strix smart rounds,” Morgan told her. ”The Swedes make them. Once they're aloft, their fins move to correct their trajectory. They can be laser- or GPS-directed. They're nasty, powerful things.”
”What's their range?” Eva said nervously.
”Seven miles in neutral air-that means no wind. Normally each round carries thirty-two bomblets. If these are the new Iranian mortars, they can launch up to eight rounds a minute. That's faster than a sneeze. It'll be b.l.o.o.d.y rough on the receiving end.”
”Have they said what they're shooting at?” She was frustrated because she understood so little Arabic.
”They aren't talking much. They seem to know exactly what to do, and they just do it. They've finished the mechanical a.s.sembly. They're moving on to what looks like the electronics. You can see a computer screen glowing at the base of each mortar.” A minute pa.s.sed. ”One of them mentioned an emba.s.sy, but didn't name it.”
”The direction of the tubes looks as if they're aiming into the city, doesn't it?”
”c.r.a.p. One of them just said the target was the U.S. Emba.s.sy.”
”Oh, G.o.d, no!”
Morgan's expression was grim. ”Have you seen the emba.s.sy?” When she shook her head, he said, ”Never accuse a Yank of being modest. It's a heavily fortified compound the size of Vatican City. It's got high walls, guard towers, machine-gun emplacements, rings of security, and doors like bank vaults. There are more than twenty buildings, including apartments, a couple of gyms and swimming pools, shops, bars, restaurants, offices, meeting rooms, and its own power station and water- and waste-treatment facilities. If that sounds like the most expensive and largest and most secured emba.s.sy the world's ever seen, it's because it is.”
”You think the mortars are big enough to do serious damage?”
He stared at her. ”There are something like fifteen thousand people there, all crammed into one and a half square miles, and those mortars are serious enough to cut through heavy steel like it's b.u.t.ter. What do you think?”
”I think we'd better d.a.m.n well do something!”
79.
Bright with light, the vast exhibit hall in the National Museum of Iraq was filling with people. It was a very different scene from the one in 2003 when the six a.s.sa.s.sins broke in to steal the cuneiform tablet. The hall had rung with emptiness then, and the only illumination had been moonlight filtering down through high windows, barely touching the gloom. Looting had left display cases and shelves smashed and empty.
Tonight, that terrible time was nowhere in evidence. Ancient statues stood on marble pedestals, showcases displayed important artifacts, and gla.s.s shelves presented exhibits chronicling the ill.u.s.trious history of Mesopotamia. Many of the guests were members of the Iraqi parliament and their spouses. There were also museum officials and local dignitaries. The third contingent was foreigners.
The scent of expensive perfumes drifted toward where Judd, Bosa, and Hilu stood in line, waiting to be allowed through the guards' checkpoint. They had already been inspected by backscatter X-rays to detect hidden weapons and explosives. To be unarmed made Judd more than a little uneasy. He scanned, hoping for an opportunity to relieve one of the guards of his gun.
At last they reached the front of the line, where a young sentry stood with a clipboard and a felt-tip pen.
”Si, yes. It is all true.” Wearing a curly white-gray wig and gesturing with a conductor's flamboyance, Bosa peered up from his wheelchair at the museum security guard and lifted his VIP badge so the young man could more easily read it. ”You are very handsome, Signore Guard. Do you sing?” With prosthetic inserts to widen his nose and makeup to tan his face and hands, Bosa was transformed into a nonexistent person: Rene San Martino, Italian maestro. ”As Hilu told you, I am general manager of the Italian-American Heritage Chorus-”
”Shukraan, Mr. San Martino.” Thanks. He checked off San Martino's name on a clipboard and turned to Judd. ”And you are, sir?”
”I'm the American manager of the Italian-American Heritage Chorus,” Judd lied. His light brown hair had been shaved off completely-he was bald. His eyebrows were dyed black, his hazel eyes darkened with contact lenses, and his mouth widened and enlarged with prostheses. ”Brad Chastain, at your service, from Philly. We're hoping to-”
”Shukraan, Mr. Chastain.” The guard found Judd's cover name, checked it off, and gestured to Hilu, who was on the manifest as their official escort. ”You can go in.” He beckoned to the next guests in line to step forward.
With Hilu pus.h.i.+ng Bosa's wheelchair, they moved into the exhibit hall. Judd heard at least four different languages and, of course, Sunni and s.h.i.+te accents. The place was packed, the noise a rush of excitement.
Judd studied the layout. A temporary stage had been erected at the far end of the room. Halfway there, on facing walls, hung large screens to televise the speeches so those who were distant could have close-up and personal views. Audio speakers were fastened discreetly high in the corners. At the moment, they were softly playing Arab music.
Bosa was glancing across the room. ”Hilu, do you see the small blonde woman to our right?” She appeared to be in her late fifties, an attractive woman with a round figure, turned-up nose, and blue eyes. She was chatting with two Iraqi women. ”There's something familiar about her. Who is she?” Bosa asked.
”She's al-Sabah's wife,” Hilu said. ”Her name is Zahra. Very popular among the women. Usually she's veiled. The only times I see her without one is at an event like this.”
”Zahra,” Judd repeated. ”In English, that's 'Rose.'”
”In Russian, it's 'Roza,'” Bosa said. ”I'll be d.a.m.ned. She's Roza Levinchev-Katia's mother. I recognize her from the old days.”
For a moment, Judd and Bosa were silent.