The Hades Factor Part 26

The abaya-clad woman barked, "Inside! Both of you."

Jon felt a jolt. There was something oddly familiar about the woman s voice.

But that would have to wait. He pulled the woman with the baby back inside the tire storage room, and they ran after the bent woman as she limped past the tattered curtain and into the front, where blood had splattered the walls and pooled on the floor. There Gha.s.san and four Guardsmen lay dead against opposite walls. The metallic scents of blood and death stank the air. Jon's throat tightened. Gha.s.san must have killed the four soldiers before dying of a mortal wound to the chest.

"Gha.s.san!" The Iraqi woman gasped.

The woman in the abaya spoke rapid Arabic to the woman with the baby as she swiftly pulled off the pushi and abaya. Asking questions, she removed the harness that had kept her bent over. With relief, she straightened to her full five feet nine inches. Jon watched, fighting shock, as she adjusted the U.N. armband on her tweed jacket, smoothed her gray skirt, and stuffed the pushi and abaya into a compartment hidden under the false bottom of her gym bag. She had accomplished her transformation in less than a minute, at the same time carrying on a conversation with the woman.

But that was not what had frozen Jon. It was the disguised woman's appearance.

She had the same striking gold hair as Sophia's, although it was short and curled around her ears. She had the identical curved, s.e.xy lips, the straight nose, the firm chin, the glowing porcelain skin, and the dusky come-hither look to her black eyes, although right now her gaze was hard and bright as she seemed to be asking the Iraqi woman a final question. It was Sophia's sister, Randi.

Smith inhaled sharply. "Christ, what are you doing here?"

"Saving your a.s.s!" Randi Russell snapped without even looking at him.

Jon barely heard her. His heart felt as if it were breaking all over again. He had not remembered how much the two sisters had looked alike. Studying Randi now made his skin crawl, but at the same time he could not tear his gaze away. He held on to the shop counter and felt his heart rage. He blinked. He had to get over this quickly.

Her final question answered by the woman with the child, Randi Russell turned on Smith. Her face was cool marble. Not at all the face of Sophia. "The Guards' backups will be here any minute. We're going out the front. That's the most dangerous part, but it's safer than the alley. She knows the back streets better than I, so she'll lead. Keep your Beretta hidden but handy. I'll bring up the rear. They'll be looking for one European man and two Iraqi women, one wearing an abaya."

Jon forced himself back to the present. He understood. "The survivors in the alley will report us."

"Exactly. They'll describe what they saw. Let's hope my change of appearance will confuse the new team enough to hesitate. They hate Europeans, but they don't want an international incident, either."

Jon nodded. He felt his cool reserve return.

They slipped out of the store into the dark night. This was just a mission, he told himself, and Randi was just another professional. With a practiced sweep, his gaze took in the street. Instantly he saw two of them: A military vehicle parked at the far end. It looked like a Russian BRDM-2, an armored car with a 25mm gun, coaxial machine guns, and ant.i.tank missiles. A second armored car was lumbering along the street toward them, a lethal behemoth frightening pedestrians out of its way.

"They're looking for us," Jon growled.

"Let's go!" Randi said.

The woman carrying the infant hurried off, and within twenty feet slipped into a s.p.a.ce between buildings so constricted one person could barely fit. Spiderwebs caught at his face as Jon ran along the narrow pa.s.sage behind her. Alert and on edge, Beretta ready, he glanced back frequently at Randi to make certain she was all right.

At last they reached the end and stepped out onto another thoroughfare. Randi hid her Uzi back inside her gym bag, and Smith slid his Beretta beneath his jacket and into his waistband. The woman and child stayed ahead, while Jon and Randi strode along together, following at a discrete distance. It was natural--- two European U.N. workers out for the evening. But it left Jon with a queasy feeling, as if the past had just slammed into the present and left him aching and forlorn. He kept pushing back the pain of Sophia's death.

Randi growled, "What in h.e.l.l are you doing in Baghdad, Jon?"

He grimaced. The same old Randi, as subtle and understanding as a cobra. "Same as you, obviously. Working."

"Working?" Her blond eyebrows raised. "On what? I haven't heard of any sick American soldiers here for you to kill."

He said, "There seem to be CIA agents here, though. Now I know why you're never at home or at your 'international think tank.' "

Randi glared. "You still haven't said why you're in Baghdad. Does the army know, or are you off on another of your personal crusades?"

He spoke a half-lie: "There's a new virus we're working on at USAMRIID. It's a killer. I've had reports of cases like it in Iraq."

"And the army sent you to find out?"

"Can't think of anyone better," he said lightly. Obviously she hadn't heard he had been declared AWOL and was wanted for questioning about General Kielburger's death. Inwardly, he sighed. She must not have heard about Sophia's murder, either.

Now was not the time to tell her.

The streets grew narrow again, with windowed overhangs that shone with yellow candlelight. The shops in these dark streets were little more than cubes set inside thick, ancient walls--- not high enough in which to stand erect, and just wide enough for most adults to spread their arms. A single vendor squatted in each entrance, hawking meager goods.

The woman with the baby finally turned into the rear entrance of a run-down but modern building--- a small hospital. Children lay sleeping and moaning on cots that rimmed the walls in the entryway and in the wards on either side. The woman carrying the feverish baby led Jon and Randi past crowded treatment rooms, all with child patients. This was a pediatric hospital, and from what Smith could a.s.sess, it had once been up-to-date and thoroughly outfitted. But now it was dilapidated, with its equipment in various stages of disrepair.

Perhaps this was where he was to meet the famous pediatrician. Because they were in such different fields of medicine, he had no personal knowledge of him. He turned back to Randi. "Where's Dr. Mahuk? Gha.s.san was supposed to take me to him. He's a pediatric specialist."

"I know," Randi told him quietly. "That's why I was in the tire shop--- to make sure Gha.s.san made safe contact with an undercover agent--- obviously, with you. Dr. Mahuk is a vital member of the Iraqi underground. We'd expected you to have your meeting there in Gha.s.san's store. We thought it'd be safer."

The middle-aged woman with the baby stepped into an office with a desk and examining table. Gently she laid the baby on the table. As the infant whimpered, she picked up a stethoscope that was curled on the desk. Jon followed the woman, while Randi paused to look carefully up and down the dingy corridor. Then she stepped inside the office and closed the door. There was a second door, and she moved swiftly across worn linoleum to it. Warily she opened it onto a ward. Children's voices and cries rose and fell. Her face sad, she shut this door, too.

She took out her Uzi. Resting it in her arms, she leaned back against the door.

As Jon stared, her expression hardened and grew watchful, the utter professional. She was guarding not only the Iraqi woman and baby but him, too. It was a side of Randi he had never seen. As long as he had known her, she had been fiercely independent, with a compelling sense of self-confidence. When he had first met her seven years ago, he had found her beautiful and intriguing. He had tried to talk to her about her fiance's death, about his sense of guilt, but it had been no use.

Later, when Smith had gone to her condo in Washington to try to apologize again about Mike's death, he had discovered Sophia. He had never been able to penetrate Randi's rage and grief, but his love for Sophia had made it less necessary. Now he would have to tell Randi about Sophia's murder, and he did not look forward to it.

Inwardly he sighed. He wanted Sophia back. Every time he looked at Randi, he wanted her back even more.

The Iraqi woman smiled up at Jon as he helped her unwrap the blanket around the baby. "You will please forgive my deception," she said in perfect English. "Once we were attacked, I was concerned you might be captured. It was better you not know that I am the one you seek. I am Dr. Radah Mahuk. Thank you for your help in saving this little one." She beamed down at the child, then bent over to examine it.

CHAPTER.

THIRTY TWO

9:02 P.M.

Baghdad Dr. Radah Mahuk sighed. "There is so little we can do for the children. Or, for that matter, for any of the sick and injured in Iraq."

On the examining table, which had been repaired with nails and tape, the pediatrician listened to the chest of the baby--- a little girl. She checked the baby's eyes, ears, and throat and took her temperature. Jon guessed she was about six months old, although she looked no more than four. He studied her thinness and the translucency of her fevered skin. Earlier he had noted the eyes were an ivory color and veinless--- indicating a vitamin deficiency. This baby was not getting enough nourishment.

At last Dr. Mahuk nodded to herself, opened the door, and called for a nurse. As she handed the infant over, she stroked the little girl's cheek and gave instructions in Arabic: "Bathe her. She needs to be cleaned. But use cool water to help bring down the fever. I will be out shortly." Her lined face was worried. Weariness had collected in blue circles under her large dark eyes.

Randi, who had understood the doctor's orders, asked in English, "What's wrong with her?"

"Diarrhea, among other problems," the pediatrician answered.

Jon nodded. "Common, considering the living conditions. When sewage seeps into drinking eater, you get diarrhea and a lot worse."

"You are right, of course. Please sit down. Diarrhea is common, particularly in the older parts of the city. Her mother has three other children at home, two with muscular dystrophy." She shrugged wearily. "So I told her I would take her little girl to see what I could do. Tomorrow morning, the mother will come and want her back, but she does not get enough to eat to produce milk to nurse. But perhaps by then I will find some good yogurt for the baby."

Dr. Mahuk pushed herself up onto the edge of the examining table and sat. Her legs dangled from beneath the simple print dress. She wore tennis shoes and white anklets. In Iraq, life for most people was basic, and this doctor, whose work had been published widely, who once had traveled the globe to address pediatric conferences, was reduced to nostrums and yogurt.

"I appreciate your taking the risk to talk to me." Jon sat in a rickety chair at the desk. He looked around the Spartan office and examination room. A worried sense of urgency made him edgy. Still, he smoothed his features and kept his voice casual. He was grateful the pediatrician wanted to help, and he was frustrated from his long day.

She shrugged. "It is what I must do. It is right." She unwound her white cowl and shook out her long dark hair. As it fell in a cloud around her shoulders, she appeared younger and angrier. "Who would have thought we would end like this?" Her dark eyes snapped. "I grew up during the early promise of the Ba'ath Party. Those were exciting days, and Iraq was full of hope. The Ba'ath sent me to London for my medical degree and then to New York for training at Columbia-Presbyterian Hospital. When I returned to Baghdad, I founded this hospital and became its first director. I do not want to be its last. But when the Ba'ath made Saddam president, everything changed."

Smith nodded. "He sent Iraq into war with Iran almost immediately."

"Yes, it was terrible. So many of our boys died. But after eight years of blood and empty slogans, we finally signed a treaty in which we won the right to move our border a few hundred meters from the center of the Shatt al-Arab to its eastern bank. All those wasted lives for a minor border dispute! Then to add insult to injury, we had to return all the land to Iran in 1990 as a bribe to keep it out of the Gulf War. Insanity." She grimaced. "Of course, after Kuwait and that terrible war came the embargo. We call it al-hissar, which means not only isolation but encirclement by a hostile world. Saddam loves the embargo because he can blame all our problems on it. It is his most powerful tool to stay in power.

"Now you can't get enough medicine," Jon said.

The pediatrician closed her eyes with angry frustration. "Malnutrition, cancers, diarrheas, parasites, neuromuscular conditions... diseases of all kinds. We need to feed our children, give them clean water, and inoculate them. Here in my country, every illness is a death threat now. Something must be done, or we will lose our next generation." She opened her dark eyes. They were moist with emotion. "That is why I joined the underground." She looked at Randi. "I am grateful for your help." She whispered insistently, "We must overthrow Saddam before he kills us all."

Through the door against which she leaned, Randi Russell could hear the low voices of doctors and nurses, whose soft words were too often all they had to give to the sick and dying children. Her heart went out to them and this tragic country.

But at the same time, turmoil raged inside her. As she kept guard against more trouble from Saddam's elite forces, she gazed at the two doctors who continued deep in conversation. From the examination table where she sat, Radah Mahuk's dusky face was tormented. She was a key player in the shaky opposition group the CIA was financing and had sent Randi and others to help strengthen. At the same time, Jonathan Smith slouched in a low chair, apparently relaxed. But she knew him well enough to guess his casual demeanor hid vigilant tension. She thought about what he had told her--- he was here to investigate some virus.

Her gaze hardened. Smith's tendency to be a loose canon could jeopardize Dr. Mahuk and, through Dr. Mahuk, the resistance. Suddenly uneasy, she adjusted the Uzi in her arms.

"That's why you agreed to talk with me?" Smith asked Dr. Mahuk.

"Yes. But we are all watched, hence the subterfuge."

Jon smiled grimly. "The more subterfuge, the better the CIA likes it."

Randi's unease rocketed to the surface. "The longer you're together, the more danger to everyone. Ask what you came to ask."

Jon ignored her. He focused on Dr. Mahuk. "I've already learned a great deal about the three Iraqis who died of an unknown virus last year. They'd been in southern Iraq on the Kuwait border at one time or another near the end of the Gulf War."

"So I was told, yes. A virus unknown in Iraq, which is strange."

"The whole thing is strange," Smith agreed. "One of my sources says there were also three survivors last year. Do you know anything about that?"

This time it was Dr. Mahuk who had to be prompted.

"Doctor?" Randi said.

The pediatrician slid off the table and padded to the door that was closed on the main corridor. She opened it quickly. No one was outside. She looked left and right. At last, she shut it and turned, her head c.o.c.ked as she listened for intruders. "To even speak of the deaths and survivals is forbidden," she said in a strained voice. "But, yes, there were three survivors. All in Basra, which is in the south, too, as you must know. Close to Kuwait. It sounds to me as if you may have formed the same theory I have."

Jon said grimly, "Some kind of experiment?"

The pediatrician nodded.

He asked, "All three survivors were also in the Gulf War, stationed near the Kuwait border?"

"Yes."

"It's odd that all those in Baghdad died, while the ones in Basra survived."

"Very odd. It was one of the aspects that drew my attention."

Randi studied the pair. They were talking cautiously around an issue she did not quite understand but sensed was momentous. Their gazes were focused on each other, the tall American man and the small Iraqi woman, and the intellectual tension was palpable. At the moment, as they probed their mutual quest, the outside world had receded, which made them more vulnerable--- and Randi more alert.

Jon asked, "Can you explain why those in Basra survived, Dr. Mahuk?"

"As it happens, yes. I was in the Basra hospital, helping to treat the victims, when a team of doctors from the U.N. arrived and gave each an injection. They not only improved, four days later they showed no ill effects from the virus. They were healed." She paused and deadpanned, "It was remarkable."

"That's an understatement."

"It is." She crossed her arms as if she had just felt a chill. "I would not have believed it had I not seen it."

Smith jumped up and paced around the room. His high-planed face was deep in thought; his blue eyes cold, glittering, and outraged. "You know what you're telling me, Doctor? A cure for a fatal and unknown virus? Not a vaccine, but a cure?"

"That is the only reasonable explanation."

"Curative antiserum?"

"That would be the best possibility."

"It would also mean those so-called U.N. doctors had the material in quant.i.ty."

"Yes."

Jon's words spilled out in a rush: "A serum in quant.i.ty for a virus that first broke out in Iraq's six cases last year and then mysteriously reappeared a little more than a week ago in six more cases halfway around the world, in America. And all twelve victims had served on the Iraq-Kuwait border during the war or had a transfusion from someone who'd served on the border."

"Precisely." The pediatrician nodded vigorously. "In two countries where the virus had never existed."

The two medical doctors faced each other across a great silence, both reluctant to say the next sentence.

But Randi could. "It's not remarkable. It's not even a miracle." They turned to stare at her as she spoke the unspeakable: "Someone gave all of them the virus."

It sickened Jon. "Yes, while only half were given the serum. It was a controlled, lethal experiment on humans who were uninformed and gave no consent."

The pediatrician paled. "It reminds me of the depraved n.a.z.i doctors who used concentration camp inmates for guinea pigs. Obscene. Monstrous!"

Randi stared at her. "Who were they?"

"Did any of those doctors with the serum tell you their names, Dr. Mahuk?" Jon asked.

"They gave no names. They said helping the men could get them into trouble with our regime and with their supervisors in Geneva. But I am sure they were lying. There was no way they could have entered Iraq and worked at that particular military hospital without the government's knowing."

"How, then? A bribe?"

"A large bribe in some form to Saddam himself, I would guess."