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 cocked 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 quantity.”
“Yes.”
Jon’s words spilled out in a rush: “A serum in quantity 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 Nazi 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.”
Randi asked, “You don’t think they were from the U.N. at all, do you?”
The pediatrician shook her head nervously. “I should have seen the natural conclusion before. It is the problem with today. Just to live is a battle, and so we miss the overall picture. The answer to your question is yes, I believe they were not from the U.N., nor were they practicing doctors. Instead, they acted like research scientists. Plus, they arrived quickly, as if they knew who was going to be sick and when.”
It fit Jon’s idea that the twelve victims were part of a test begun at the 167th MASH at the end of the Gulf War. “Did they give any hint about where they’d come from?”
“They said Germany, but their German was textbook, and their clothes weren’t European. I think they were Americans, which, a year ago, would have made it even more dangerous for them to enter Iraq without the approval of Saddam himself.”
Randi frowned. She adjusted the Uzi. “You have no thoughts about who could have sent them?”
“All I remember is their speaking once among themselves about excellent skiing. But they could be referring to many, many places.”
Jon paced, contemplating research scientists from America who had a quantity of serum to cure the new virus. Suddenly he realized: “I’ve spent the day asking about the six who had the virus a year ago. What about since then? Have there been more cases in Iraq?”
Dr. Mahuk compressed her lips in shocked sorrow. She had devoted her life to healing, and now the world seemed to be exploding in a sickness beyond anyone’s control. Anger and pain and outrage laced her voice as she told them, “In the past week, we have had many new victims of ARDS. At least fifty have died. We are not sure of the exact number, and it changes by the hour. We are only beginning to investigate whether it is the unknown virus, but I have little doubt. The same symptoms are there—the history of small fevers, the heavy cold or mild flu for a few weeks, and the sudden ARDS, the hemorrhaging and death within hours. There have been no survivors.” Her voice broke. “None.”
Smith whirled from his nervous pacing, stunned by the large number of deaths. Compassion filled him. Then he realized … this could be the answer: “Were these victims also in the Gulf War? Or from the Kuwait border?”
Dr. Mahuk sighed. “Unfortunately, the answer is not that simple. Only a few were in the war and none was from near Kuwait.”
“Any contact with the original six of a year ago?”
Her voice was discouraged. “None at all.”
Jon thought of his beloved Sophia and then of General Kielburger, Melanie Curtis, and the 167th MASH from ten years before. “But how could fifty people unknowingly be injected with the virus simultaneously—especially in a sealed-off nation like yours? Were they from one single area? Had they been abroad? Did they have contact with foreigners?”
Dr. Mahuk did not answer immediately. She peeled away from her listening post at the door. She fished in a skirt pocket and took out what looked like a Russian cig
arette. As she paced across the room to the examining table, she lit it, tense and nervous. The pungent barnyard aroma characteristic of Russian tobacco filled the spartan office.
At last she said, “Because of my work with the virus victims last year, I was asked to study the new cases. I looked for all the possible sources of infection you mentioned. But I found none. I also found no connection among the victims. They appeared to be a random sampling of both sexes, all ages, occupations, ethnic groups, and geographic regions.” She inhaled again, letting the smoke out slowly as if still forming her thoughts. “They did not appear to have infected each other or their families. I cannot say whether that is significant, but it is curious.”
“It’s consistent. Everything I’ve found so far indicates the virus has almost no contagious factor.”
“Then how are they getting it?” Randi had been following the conversation closely. Although she had no degree in chemistry or biology, she had had enough science courses to be aware of some of the fundamentals. What the two doctors were talking about … were deeply worried about … was an epidemic. “And why only Iraq and America?” she asked. “Could it be the result of some biological warfare weapon from Desert Storm hidden here in Iraq?”
Shaking her head, Dr. Mahuk walked to the chipped metal desk in the corner. Her cigarette smoke followed like a brown ghost. She took a sheet of paper from a drawer and handed it to Jon. Randi instantly joined him, shifting the Uzi out of the way so she could lean closely. Appalled, they read a computer printout of a Washington Post front page:
DEADLY PANDEMIC OF UNKNOWN VIRUS SWEEPS GLOBE
The story reported twenty-seven nations had fatalities of more than a half million. All the illnesses began with a cold or flu for some two weeks, then abruptly escalated into ARDS, hemorrhaging, and death. In addition, forty-two nations reported cases in the high millions of what appeared to be a heavy common cold. It was still unknown whether all or any of those had the virus.
The news took Jon’s breath away. Cold fear swept through him. A half million dead! Millions sick! “Where did you get this?” he asked.
Dr. Mahuk stubbed out her cigarette. “We have a secret computer at the hospital. We took that off the Internet this morning. Obviously, the virus is no longer confined to Iraq and America or to the Gulf War. I do not see how the cause could be a biological weapon in my country. The high number of deaths is ghastly.” Her voice broke. “That is why I knew I must speak to you.”
The ramifications of the news story and the pediatrician’s revelations shook Jon again. Quickly he reread the article, thinking about what he had learned. Dr. Mahuk had ruled out nearly every possible contact with the outside; still, the virus had exploded into a worldwide epidemic. Two weeks ago, every one of the victims had been alive except the original three in Iraq from a year ago. The velocity of the virus’s current expansion was inconceivable.
He looked up from the printout. “This is out of control. I’ve got to get home. If there really are people in America with a serum, I’ve got to find them. By now, some friends of mine may have information, too. There’s no time to lose—”
Suddenly Randi stiffened. “Wait.”
Holding up her Uzi, she raced across the room to the door that opened onto the corridor. Smith was instantly at her side, his Beretta drawn. She was tense with nervous awareness.
Suddenly from the corridor a harsh voice, snarling in Arabic, became clear. Smaller, frightened voices answered. Heavy boots thudded authoritatively down the hall in the direction of the small examination room.
Jon looked at Dr. Mahuk and asked urgently, “The Republican Guards?”
She pressed quaking fingers to her lips and listened to the words. At last she shook her head and whispered, “The police.” Her dark, expressive eyes were pits of fear.
Randi tore across the room to the other door. With her curly blond hair and long, svelte figure in the clinging skirt and jacket, she looked more like a runway model than a seasoned CIA agent. But Jon had seen her risk her life and succeed in a superb defense against the Republican Guards back in the alley behind the used-tire shop, and now she radiated that same kind of intelligent physicality.
“Police or guards. Doesn’t matter. They’ll try to kill us.” Randi’s head swiveled, her dark gaze summoning them to her. “We’ll have to leave through the ward. Hurry!” She yanked open the door, looked back, and motioned Jon and Dr. Mahuk to go through first.
It was a mistake. The police were waiting for them on the other side. It was a trap, and they had fallen into it.
A uniformed Iraqi policeman lunged and tore the Uzi from Randi’s hands before she could react. Three others poured into the room, AK-47 assault rifles leveled. As Jon tried to raise his Beretta two more policemen burst through the corridor door and fell on him wrestling him to the floor. They were caught.
Chapter Thirty-Three
9:41 P.M.
Baghdad
Dr. Radah Mahuk stood motionless, her back to the wall, unable to move. She was brave but not foolhardy. Her job was to heal the sick, and she could not do that if she was killed. Nor could she try to save her country if she was consigned to the notorious Justice Detention Center. Like the dead Ghassan, she was a soldier in a sacred cause, but she had no gun, and she knew no self-defense. Her only weapons were her brain and the trust she had built among her countrymen. Free, she would be able to continue to help her people and perhaps the Americans, too. So she pressed back behind the counter, willing herself to be invisible. Sweat beaded up on her forehead.
Two more uniformed policemen entered from the corridor more warily, their gazes darting right and left, their weapons ready for any emergency. Behind them, a slender man dressed in a tailored uniform strolled into the room holding an Iraqi-made Beretta tariq pistol.
For the moment, no one was looking at Dr. Mahuk. She was not important, at least not yet. Terrified and heartsick, she slipped away into the hall and walked as slowly and unobtrusively as she could to locate a telephone.
In the room, the tailored officer smiled at Jon and said in lightly accented English, “Colonel Smith, yes? At last. You have been most difficult to find.”
He inclined his head to Randi with exaggerated politeness. “And this lady? I do not know her. Perhaps the CIA? It is rumored your nation finds us so fascinating that you must constantly send undercover spies to measure the temperature of our love for our leader.”
Jon’s chest was tight with anger. They had been careless. Damn!
“I don’t know her,” he lied. “She’s part of the hospital staff.” It sounded lame even to his ears, but it was worth a shot.
The officer laughed in disbelief. “A European lady is a member of this hospital? No, I do not think so.”
Angry with herself, worried for the underground organization, and frantically thinking of what they could do, Randi shot Jon a surprised look, grateful for his attempt.
But then the officer stopped smiling. He flourished his tariq. It was time to move his prisoners to wherever they were to be taken. He gave a command in Arabic, and the police pushed Randi and Jon out into the corridor. Doors quietly clicked shut ahead in the passageway as the terrified hospital personnel tried to keep themselves and their charges out of harm’s way. The two Americans were marched out through a silent, empty corridor.
Randi watched nervously everywhere for Radah Mahuk, and when she saw no sign of her, she breathed deeply, relieved. Abruptly one of the policemen shoved the muzzle of his gun into her back, hurrying her along, a painful reminder of the danger of their situation. She broke out in fresh sweat, afraid.
The police paraded the Americans out into the star-studded night where an old Russian truck with a canvas-covered squad carrier waited at the curb, its motor rumbling. Billowing exhaust from the tailpipe of the old motor curled upward, silver white in the cold moonlight. Around them, the night sounds of the city were close and menacing. The police lowered the truck’s tailgate, raised the canvas, and pushed the t
wo Americans into the rear.
The interior was moist and dark, and there was a nauseating stink of diesel. Randi shivered and stared anxiously at Jon.
He gazed back, trying to hide his fear. His voice was wry: “And you complain about my crusades.”
She gave a weak smile. “Sorry about that. Next time I’ll plan better.”
“Thanks. My disposition’s improved already.” He warily studied the interior. “How do you think they found us?”
“I don’t see how they could’ve tracked us from the tire shop. My guess is someone in the hospital turned us in. Not every Iraqi agrees with Dr. Mahuk’s revolutionary ideas. Besides, the way things are in this country, people will turn on you in the hope of gaining a little favor with the police.”
Two of the Baghdad cops clambered up into the truck. They aimed their big Kalashnikovs at the Americans and indicated by waves of their hands and grunted words that the pair was to move deeper into the truck, far from the tailgate. Pretending defeat, Jon and Randi scrambled farther inside and settled behind the truck’s cab on a plank seat. The two armed men took positions next to the tailgate on either side of the truck, guarding the only exit. They were about ten feet from their prisoners—within easy firing range.
The officer with the tariq pistol stood in the opening at the truck’s rear. “Au revoir for now, my new American friends.” He smiled at his idea of humor. But he aimed his weapon at them ominously as he ordered the tailgate locked into place.
Jon demanded, “Where are you taking us?”
“A playground. A weekend getaway. A resort, if you will.” The Iraqi grinned under his mustache. Then his voice grew flinty and his eyes narrowed. “In truth? The Justice Detention Center. If you do what you are told, perhaps you will live.”