Hostile Fire (16 page)

She saw a sudden change in his expression, from open and pleased to a serious, nearly frightened look.

“He shouldn’t have said that, even as a joke. I can’t explain it and you should forget you ever heard him say that. People could get in trouble talking about that. Even you, and especially me. Let’s just forget all about it. I don’t think I should take your class. Excuse me, I have to leave.”

He stood abruptly and hurried away without a backward glance. The moment he left the chair, a short man with a beard and hard eyes sat down in his place. He had a sharply defined face with a small nose and heavy brows. He stared at Gypsy.

“Gypsy, we have been watching you more closely lately,” the small man said. “Yes, yes, I know about your mural in the palace and that you have been a favorite of the president. But even he will turn away from you over this problem. Why did you talk to Hassan?”

“I invited him to join my next oil painting class.”

“That’s why he suspected you. Because of his past work, he is especially careful about who he talks to. He wondered why a famous artist like you would have to ask people to be in your classes. That’s when he contacted us. We have a heavy file on you, Miss Gypsy. You have done some questionable acts in the past and we have long memories. Even now you have some strange men staying at your quarters.”

“They are art students from the country. I provide them a place to stay while they study with me.”

“We are finding that hard to believe, Gypsy. We think that it’s time you come to headquarters for a talk with the captain. He is an expert on your history. Now would be a good time to go.”

Gypsy had a pencil in her small purse, but she didn’t see how she could use it here. She had to do something. The
SEALs were in danger but how could she warn them?

“Do you mind if I finish my drink first? It’s a hot day outside.”

The Secret Policeman nodded. “It may be the last one you get for a while. The captain is not at all pleased with you. Knowing that you mentioned fishing in the desert will make him angrier.”

Her mind whirled. How many of them were there? Where were the others? Would she have a better chance here or in the car? If only she had ordered hot coffee, she could have thrown it in his face. She made the drink last, but could work out no plan. There would be at least two of them. They didn’t trust their own people enough to send out one man to do a job. Where was the other one? In the car, or watching from the side. It had to be now. She took the pencil out of her purse and wrote on a piece of paper, then she stood, and before the policeman could stand, she threw the rest of her drink in his face, lunged forward with the pencil stiff between her fingers as before, and drove it into his chest. He cried out and pushed backwards. Already the sharp-pointed pencil had plunged three inches into his chest. He grabbed at it, tripped over the chair as he was standing, and fell on his chest. His body weight drove the pencil six inches into his chest.

There were few patrons in the cafe. Two looked the other way. She stepped away from the table and walked toward the kitchen, expecting a man to grab her at any moment.

Just before she reached the door, a shot thundered and she felt the bullet slam past her head and hit the door. A man with a pistol out ran toward her shouting. She ducked behind a waiter just coming from the kitchen with a tray of dinners. She pushed him from behind, driving him toward the gunman. The man fired again, the round pounding into the waiter’s chest. He screamed, and Gypsy pushed him forward into the gunman, knocking them both down. She grabbed the pistol, which had skittered out of the policeman’s hand. She bent and slammed the heavy pistol twice against the Secret Policeman’s head, just the way she had been trained by the army to do. The policeman stopped shouting and his head rolled to one side. He was dead or unconscious.

Gypsy dropped the pistol, ran through the kitchen’s swinging doors, and looked for the back way out. She saw a door and went through it, then out another, and she was in the alley. Once outside, she ran the long way down the alley to the street. Then she walked. She had on a light jacket over her dark blouse. She pulled the jacket off and dropped it into a trash can hoping it would make her harder to identify. Then she walked quickly away from the main street. She found a telephone and called her own number. Someone picked it up on the third ring.

“Yes?”

“Jones?”

“Yes, Gypsy?”

“Right. Trouble. They tried to arrest me. I got away. They know there are strange men at my place. Get all of you out of there now. Right this instant. Set up things in the street somewhere many blocks away. Get them moving toward the target with what they have now. Do you understand?”

“Yes. We’re moving now. Go to my place. You know the address. Nobody has been watching me lately. Go there now. Walk, don’t take a cab. No hurry. Better yet wait somewhere for an hour, then call my home and I’ll come pick you up. We’re all gone from here.”

The three SEALs left the warehouse one at a time and walked in different directions. They would meet two blocks over to the north. Murdock was the last SEAL out. Jones had planned to wait a few minutes more and then drive away in his car. Murdock tried to act naturally as he left the alley and walked down the street. He had to stop himself from checking out every hiding spot. He saw a man come out from between buildings, but too late to avoid him. The man wore a sports shirt and dress pants and he held an automatic in his left hand.

“Stop,” the man said in Arabic.

Murdock waved at his ears as if he couldn’t hear and kept walking toward the man. The Secret Policeman frowned, said something else, then Murdock was against him, grabbed the gun, pushed it aside, and drove the smaller man backwards between the buildings. Murdock’s right hand had the weapon, and his left came up hard, grabbing the man’s throat
and pushing his head upward. His grip cut off the man’s air and pressed hard on both carotid arteries. In twenty seconds the policeman collapsed from lack of blood to his brain. He wasn’t dead, just unconscious. Murdock took the weapon, used riot cuffs around the cop’s hands and feet, and put a cloth gag around his head and across his mouth so he couldn’t scream.

At the front of the buildings, he looked both ways along the street. He saw no one. After walking a block, Murdock jogged toward the assembly point. He found both his men, and Jones and the car, waiting for him.

“What took you so long?” Ching asked.

Inside the car, Jones told them they were advancing the schedule because Gypsy had nearly been arrested.

“She might have killed the Secret Policeman,” Jones said. “At least they now will try to hunt her down and execute her. Can she go with you? She’s dead if she tries to hide here in Baghdad.”

“We can at least get her out of town,” Murdock said. “Maybe drop her off at some town along the way. We’re going into an intense combat situation.”

“She was a major, I believe, in some kind of women’s army unit in the Iran war,” Jones said. “She might be another shooter for you.”

“Doubtful,” Murdock said. “We’ll get her out of town and then see what happens.”

“That car I got for you should be parked outside of my place. If it is, all you need is some more food and water and you can be on your way.”

“What about rifles?” Ching asked. “Are any available? I hear every house has at least one for use by the Home Guard.”

Jones nodded. “Yes, true. I can get you two. AKs—the older ones but still damn good weapons. Two rifles and about fifty rounds for each. Will that help?”

When they came near Jones’s place, he drove right past. All the men checked out the area on both sides of the street. They saw nothing that looked threatening. An old Chevrolet of uncertain year sat in front of the house. Jones turned around at the end of the block and drove back.

“This is the car. So far, so good. Let’s get out and inside. I’ll load the car with the rifles, food, and water. Then hope that Gypsy calls. When she does, you’ll have a place to pick her up. She’ll have to go with whatever she has with her. The Secret Police will be all over her place within hours.”

Murdock made one more transmission on the send-only SATCOM and told them he had no more information. He repeated the area where they should continue to hunt and said they were on their way. He hoped the rest of the platoon of SEALs had been moving long before now.

The call came ten minutes after they were packed and ready to roll.

“John?”

“Yes, Gypsy. Where are you?”

“I’m in the Green Spa restaurant on Saddam Street. I’m in the women’s room. There is one man following me. He has to be Secret Police. I don’t know how they found me. Send two of the SEALs to the restaurant. I’ll wait until I see them standing just outside the women’s room door. I’ll peek out.”

“They are on their way. Take them about twenty minutes. You have to leave with them for the desert. If you stay in Baghdad, you’re a dead artist.”

“I know that. Tell the SEALs to hurry. I can stay in here only so long, then that man is coming in after me.”

Syrian Desert, Iraq

The monotony of the drive soon told on Asrar Fouad. He had slept for two hours, then the rough road awakened him and he swore for ten minutes, using every foul word in the four languages that he knew.

“Why can’t they build a road that will last more than two years?” he bellowed at the driver. The man behind the wheel was of mixed parentage and stood more than six feet, four inches tall. He turned to Fouad and snorted.

“Be quiet or I’ll throw you out into the desert. Would you like that, city man?”

Fouad bristled and doubled up his fist. “Do you know who you are threatening? Haven’t you seen your papers with the signature of the president himself on them?”

“Yes, but he isn’t here to help you. You want me to stop driving and let us bake in the oven here? Or can you drive this big machine?”

Fouad quieted, shrugged, and stared back out the window. Once they got to their destination, he would shoot this addled driver to further cover up the transport. He checked the odometer on the new dashboard. They had moved over eighty kilometers, about half of what he thought they would do in the three hours they had been on the road. It was another one hundred and sixty to the border. There might be a building there they could cool off in for a time. No, there wouldn’t be. Only an outpost on each side of the border. The guards might not even have guns. Relations with Jordan had always been good. There would be no facilities there for travelers.

He had been surprised at how little traffic there was on the road. Occasionally a car would pass them. He could remember
seeing only ten cars and trucks coming from Jordan on the trip. No wonder the road had not been taken care of. Desert sand had drifted over it in some places, making the going even slower.

They passed the border checkpoint two hours later. There was no action by the Iraqi guards. The Jordanian soldiers flagged them down, checked their papers, and opened the back doors of the big trailer for a quick inspection of the jammed-tight bales of cotton. In three minutes they were on their way again.

“How much fuel do we have left?” Fouad asked.

“More than three-quarters of our supply, plenty to get us all the way to the big town,” the driver said. “Go to sleep. We have a long run to As Safawi. We’ve come a hundred and fifty kilometers. The next stop is over two hundred and twenty.” The driver reached down into the cooler, took out a bottled drink, and unscrewed the top. He took a long pull from the pale green liquid and grinned. “Fuel for me,” he said.

Two hours later they met a roadblock somewhere outside of the little town they were heading for. A Jordanian tank blocked the roadway, with an army truck on each side. Six armed men stood behind the tank. An officer came out to the stopped truck. Fouad climbed down from the high cab to meet the captain.

“Our border guards told us you were coming. They want me to check your documents. Is it really the Iraqi president’s signature on your export license?”

“It is, sir. He’s concerned that we are not exporting enough cotton, so he personally moved this truckload into the system. I think you’ll find our papers in order.”

The Jordanian captain leafed through them and nodded. “You are right. It does look authentic, the signature. Fine with me. You may proceed.” He gave a signal and the tank wheeled its big gun around as it turned and aimed the cannon directly at the truck; then it rolled to the side, leaving the center of the road open. They drove through.

They soon came to the small town of As Safawi, which consisted of only ten buildings. Fouad wondered why it was
there, what sustained it. A mine, perhaps, nearby. Ten kilometers beyond the town the desert road turned northwest and Fouad started to feel better. This endless desert should soon be behind them.

“About seventy kilometers to Ar Mafraq,” the driver said. “It’s the main town in this governorate. It’s a real town. We’ll stop there and take a break. Buy something to eat. You’ll pay. It always works this way.”

Fouad seethed for a moment, then relaxed. Let him have his fun. It wouldn’t last.