Lion of Babylon (24 page)

Chapter Thirty-Nine

T
he elevator deposited them on the second basement level. Barry Duboe was there waiting when the elevator doors opened. “I'll take it from here, Corporal.”

“Sir.”

Barry nodded a greeting to Marc and Sameh, then turned to the third man. “You're Major Hamid Lahm?”

“I am.”

“Heard good things.” Barry Duboe gestured with his head. “Let's move out.”

Marc noted the unease shared by Sameh and Lahm as they looked around. “What's the matter?”

“Every Iraqi has heard stories about the bunkers linking Saddam's palaces,” Sameh said, his voice low. “And what went on down here.”

“All that is behind us,” Hamid Lahm said, but he sounded uncertain.

Every room they passed contained men and women busy with the activities of government and war. The original doors were steel and concrete and over a foot thick. These had been lashed open, with cheap plywood doors fitted into new, smaller doorframes. Sameh could well understand the Americans' desire never to be locked in one of Saddam's rooms. The whispers and the ghosts and the memories were just too dreadful a combination.

The secure communications room took up half of one such bunker. The comm room's floor had been elevated eight inches, like a room within a room. The floor and walls and ceiling were all lined with a padded beige fabric. Light came from two fluorescent strips. Duboe shut the wood and fabric door, sealing them inside. The wall opposite the doorway held a narrow window eight inches high and two feet long. Stacked electronic gear illuminated the otherwise darkened room beyond. A uniformed woman wearing headphones gave Duboe a thumbs-up through the glass.

A desk was bolted across the length of the chamber's front wall. On it were positioned four large computer screens. A massive flatscreen television hung above them. All five screens showed a blue backdrop emblazoned with the U.S. embassy seal. Speakers had been bolted around the flatscreen, with two more positioned on the desk. A microphone rose from a stand in front of a lone chair. The speakers all clicked to life, and the woman's voice said, “I have Ambassador Walton on the line.”

Marc said, “Ready at this end.”

“Sit at the desk, please. Thank you. Shift your chair two inches to the left. Okay, sir, you're on camera. Ambassador Walton states that because you have others in the room, he is sending you a voice-only transmission.”

“Roger that.”

“If you want privacy, you can slide the curtain across my window.”

Marc pointed Sameh and Hamid Lahm into seats against the back wall. Barry Duboe had taken a position forward of the door, clearly angling himself so as not to be seen on camera. “I'm good to go.”

“If any of the others need to speak, I'll have to come in and wire them up,” the woman told him.

“I believe I'll be the only one talking,” Marc said. “If the others need to respond, they can lean toward the mike.”

She nodded through the window. “Once I make the link, I will no longer be party to this conversation.” There were a series of clicks, then, “You are now secure.”

Ambassador Walton's first words were, “You're late.”

Marc said, “Sorry, sir.”

“I've gone out on the wire for you, Royce. I expect efficiency and punctuality and results in return.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What's that bandage on your arm?”

“Nothing serious, sir.”

“Who's that in there with you?”

“To my left is Sameh el-Jacobi. Baghdad attorney. And Major Hamid Lahm is with the Baghdad police.” Marc shot a quick glance at Barry Duboe. Sameh watched the CIA agent give a single shake of his head in response. Marc turned back to the screen.

Ambassador Walton demanded, “These are the two gentlemen you told me about?”

“Affirmative.”

“Where's that Special Forces officer you mentioned?”

“Josh Reames does not feel anything could be gained by appearing inside the Green Zone.”

“And what if I disagree with his assessment?”

Marc remained silent.

“All right. Can these men with you be trusted?”

“You trust me. I trust them.”

Walton said, “Okay, we're good to go at this end. I'm joined by two people, a Mr. X and a Miss Y. Mr. X is the green-light guy. Miss Y is his top in-house analyst. Repeat for them what you told me earlier.”

Marc said, “We have reason to believe the victims are being held in Iran.”

Sameh waited, expecting something—denial, rejection, refusal. Marc's conclusion and his resulting plan all seemed flimsy when laid out to a representative of the world's most powerful nation.

Instead, Ambassador Walton's disembodied voice said, “We concur.”

A new voice, male and deep and gravelly, said, “We have no established presence in that country. So we have to rely on third parties. What we're hearing is this: Iran's government will do everything in their power to quash the Iraqi political party known as the Alliance. If it looks like they might establish a coalition government, Iran intends to launch subversive tactics and further destabilize Iraq.”

Hamid Lahm was clearly able to understand the clipped speech, for he grunted like he'd taken a blow to the chest.

The deep voice continued, “The Iranian regime is struggling to keep the lid on a nationwide revolt. If the Alliance comes to power, the young and the dissatisfied within their own country will have a Shia nation right on their doorstep that is embracing true democracy. Iran's leaders are terrified their hold on power will be destroyed.”

Marc said, “Why don't we have the backing of the Americans here on the ground?”

“Because,” said Ambassador Walton, “there are vested interests in our government and business communities working with the conservative Muslims currently holding power in Baghdad.”

Mr. X added, “They also fear that if the Alliance comes to power, Iraq may fracture along traditional lines of tribe and culture. History stacks the evidence in their corner. For thirty centuries the Iraqis have gotten things wrong when it comes to forming stable governments.”

“Not to mention the concern they have over outsiders adding talk about Jesus to the mix,” Ambassador Walton said.

The deeper voice said, “Word has come to us via nations with operatives inside Iran. They report that the Revolutionary Guard is directly involved in the recent spate of abductions. We have reason to believe the victims are still alive. The Iranians do not want to create martyrs.”

Ambassador Walton said, “We have also received word that Iraq's leading imam intends to distance himself from Iran. He will use the recent attack against his son as a reason to accuse the Tehran regime of meddling in Iraqi affairs.”

Marc said, “We can confirm this is going to happen.”

Mr. X asked, “Were you the unnamed American involved in that incident?”

When Marc did not respond, Sameh leaned forward and said clearly, “He saved the Imam Jaffar's life. And mine. And my family.”

Hamid Lahm also bent closer to add, “He also kept car bombers from destroying a market and a mosque.”

“Marc helped to rescue a group of kidnapped children as well,” Sameh said, ignoring the red on the back of Marc's neck. “We have supporters everywhere now. Because of him.”

“Mr. el-Jacobi,” the deep voice said, “I want you to go to your new supporters. Tell them they need to stand with the Grand Imam after he makes his declaration. Otherwise the conservatives in your country and across the border in Iran will accuse the imam of having become an American puppet. They will bury him.”

“Yours is a vital responsibility, Mr. el-Jacobi,” Ambassador Walton agreed. “Can we count on you?”

Sameh nodded to his unseen audience. “Yes, you most certainly can.”

“We will come back to you with our suggestions for a specific message. Be ready,” Ambassador Walton said. “All right, Royce. Tell us what you need.”

“Access to active surveillance of the border between Iraq and Iran.”

“That's an affirm.”

“We're looking for an unofficial military encampment near the main highway linking Baghdad with Tehran. Small, enclosed, someplace where secrets can be kept as tight as the abductees.”

The deep voice said, “I'm turning this discussion over to our top analyst on that region.”

The woman's voice was a rich alto, husky with smoke and impossible hours. “There are two camps that fit your description.”

All five of the screens came to life. Clearly, the woman had been prepped and came ready to move. Sameh thought back to Marc stalking around his inner courtyard, talking on the phone. He watched as the two computer screens to Marc's left became illuminated by large-scale maps of the Iran-Iraq border region, crisscrossed by a bright red highway marking. The large television screen now showed a satellite view of a green-gray mountain valley. The two other screens flashed pictures of what Sameh assumed were small villages.

“You're looking at the region to the north and east of Al-Muqdadiyah,” Miss Y said. “The official border crossing is marked in green, just up and to the right of Khaniqin.”

“I know it,” Hamid Lahm murmured.

“Once it crosses over into Iran, the highway runs parallel to the Rudhaneh-ye Kerend River, then at the village of Eslamabad Garb it turns northeast and enters the foothills of the Kuhhayeza Mountains.”

Marc asked, “How far from the border are we talking?”

“The first of the two possibles is here.” A light flashed on the far left map. “It's a forested valley between Chahar and Kermansah. That puts you nineteen miles inside Iran. The second is more isolated, accessible only by farm track. It is located here, in a valley that once held two farming communities. The villages have been erased. We have no word that any of the families survived. That location is nine miles farther inside Iran.”

“Can you access satellite imagery from the night before last?”

“Roger that.”

“What would be the travel time from Baghdad to these places?”

“What form of transit?”

Marc glanced at Hamid Lahm, who was staring at the ceiling, his lips moving silently. Marc said, “Pilgrim bus.”

“Call it five hours. But it could take as long as nine.”

Lahm lowered his gaze and nodded in agreement.

Marc said, “The latest wave of abductions all happened between twenty-one hundred hours and midnight. So look at these places yesterday, right after dawn. See if you can find us a couple of buses at either of those sites.”

The room went silent. There was a faint electric hum, whether from the overhead lights or the speakers, Sameh could not tell. Or perhaps it was merely the sound of his own adrenaline-stoked nerves.

“I have it.” The large television flashed an image, impossibly clear. “This was taken by a drone at seven-fourteen yesterday morning. There in the upper left quadrant. See the shiny rectangles? That's the sun glinting off the tops of three buses.”

The men were all crowding forward now, even Barry Duboe. The scene was unmistakable. The rising sun cut a clean line across the valley floor. The aluminum tops of the buses glinted like mirrors.

The deep voice said, “Describe conditions in that valley.”

Miss Y said, “Iran's Revolutionary Guard is the primary source of training and supplies for the Shia extremists operating inside Iraq. They and Syria also supply Hezbollah in southern Lebanon. We have reason to believe this valley serves as their principal training arena.” She might as well have been discussing the weather, her voice was so calm. “It is completely cut off. Surrounded by forest and unscalable cliffs.”

From Marc, “What's the level of armed forces in place?”

“Two units of Revolutionary Guard. An unknown number of Iraqi extremists. Possibly a contingent of Hezbollah.”

“Best guess?”

“Thirty-five at minimum. Two hundred tops.”

The deep voice said, “A large difference between thirty-five and two hundred.”

“Yes, sir. Agreed.”

Ambassador Walton growled, “That is an unacceptable range of risk.”

Marc turned and glanced at Lahm, who nodded. Once. Marc leaned toward the microphone and said, “It's fine.”

Walton said, “We cannot offer you any official assistance. If you are caught or wounded, we will deny all knowledge.”

“We wouldn't have it any other way.”

“When do you move out?”

Marc glanced at Lahm, and received another nod in response. “Now,” Marc said. “There's nothing to be gained by waiting. We leave tonight.”

Chapter Forty

T
hey left the embassy and dropped Sameh by the car with his bodyguards. Marc had the distinct impression that Sameh feared he might never see them again. But Sameh merely shook their hands and wished them success. This pleased Marc. He did not want sorrow to color what might be their final meeting. Marc's last view of Sameh was through the Land Cruiser's rear window, the lawyer sketching the sign of the cross in the night between them.

Hamid made a few calls as they drove away from the Green Zone. The two of them drove straight to the main police compound, a rough-and-tumble patch of desert east of Baghdad, a far cry from the new headquarters near Parliament. These barracks and garrisons were fashioned from a former military base that predated Saddam. Old buildings once housing the British military contingent were now used to teach tactics in urban warfare.

They were passed through the central gates with a trio of salutes, the only sign Marc needed that things were moving according to plan. They drove down a broad central avenue lined by buildings bombed and burned and shot up, and then poorly repaired so the police trainees could do it all again.

At the far end was a second gate leading to the lot for impounded vehicles. Light towers surrounded the compound. The officer on gate duty saw Lahm's approach and swung the gates open. Marc recognized the guard as one of Lahm's own men. The officer grinned and waved as they passed.

Two buses stood isolated from all the other vehicles. Their scarred and bulbous forms were smoothed by the night's shadows. The sides were emblazoned with banners of what looked like Arabic script. Marc assumed it was actually Farsi, the language of Iran.

“Pilgrim transport,” Hamid Lahm confirmed as Marc walked over to inspect them. “As you instructed, I made sure the buses were taken, in case we move tonight.”

“How did you get them?”

Lahm pointed to his second-in-command. “Yussuf and his men wait for the Persian market to close. They watch which buses hold smugglers. They have many to choose from.”

Yussuf must have understood some English, for he shared his major's grin and babbled away in Arabic. Lahm said, “When Yussuf's team stopped the buses, the drivers and smugglers, they are too much upset. They claim they have papers, they pay duties, they must feed their babies, everything is good, why we wreck this? We say there is embargo. Then we, how you say, take vehicles and goods.”

“Confiscate.”

“Yes. And cellphones. And laptop computers. All the smugglers, tonight they have nice sleep in prison. Their goods stay safe in other cells.” Lahm's man continued to grin and babble. Lahm translated, “When all the other buses arrive Tehran, there will be many complaints. We will have phone calls from Iraqi customs chief, maybe the minister. So many calls. Tomorrow we apologize, say was misunderstanding, they are free to go.”

Marc asked, “Did you manage to find us some Iranians we can trust?”

Hamid pointed to the shadows beyond the first bus. “They wait for you.”

The last vehicle in their convoy from the embassy belonged to Barry Duboe. The CIA agent finally emerged from the car, phone at his ear, and waved to Marc. “Give me a minute,” Marc said, and walked over.

Duboe clicked off and said, “Our lady in Langley has come through.”

Duboe led Marc around to the back of the vehicle, opened the door, and set his laptop on the rear gate. As he waited for the satellite connection, he pointed to the black duffel bags stacked like bricks, almost completely filling the SUV. “I pulled together some things that might come in handy.”

“All I asked you for were a sat phone and enough comm links for the whole team.”

“They're in the first bag there by your hand.”

“So what's the rest of this gear?”

“You know how it is. I'm in the hangar with a free pass from the ambassador. I walk down the aisles and point at everything I think you and the guys might like under the Christmas tree.” Duboe flashed a grin. “We'll be on the road with five hours to kill. Give the boys something to play with. Who knows, it might even be useful.”

“There is no ‘we,' ” Marc said. “You're not invited to this dance.”

Duboe's only response was to swivel the laptop so the screen faced Marc. “Check this out. An infrared view of the compound in Iran from five days ago. Gives us a solid take on the number of warm bodies. Sixty-eight in all.”

Marc turned toward the night and said, “Josh.”

“Over here.”

“You need to see this.” Marc also waved at Hamid, who was inspecting the piles of gear stacked by each of his men. He came at a trot.

Duboe greeted Josh with, “There's a certain embassy suit who wants to take you out. Name of Jordan Boswell.”

Josh shook hands with Hamid, said to Duboe, “Never met the man.”

“The day Boswell arranged a chat with Marc here at a certain hotel, one of his guys on vehicle duty made you. The guard watched you have a word with Marc, then the two of you disappeared. From that point everything went south. Boswell wants to boil your career in oil.”

Josh shrugged. “Tell the man to get in line.”

Duboe liked that a lot. He turned back to the screen. “Okay. Like I said, sixty-eight possible assailants. Far as Langley knows, this is strictly an ops facility. No families or nonessential personnel.” Duboe tapped the screen with a stubby finger. “Langley figures our target is this building at the center of the village.”

Josh peered closer at the screen. “Three people seated inside the building, another one lying down.”

“Our four prisoners.” Marc's mouth was filled with a coppery flavor, as though he had bitten down on a bullet.

“There's one man in the alley next to the building. Looks like he's outside a doorway. Probably standing guard.”

Duboe nodded. “Like I said, that was five days back. Now check out the same building. This was taken ninety minutes ago, on the satellite's most recent pass.”

The men were crowded in so close, Marc could smell the garlic and clove on Hamid's breath. “Looks like the building is packed.”

“Two men guarding the door now,” Josh said. “Another patrolling the perimeter.”

Duboe shut the laptop. “That and the buses they saw parked in the village is all the confirmation we need. Everything else can wait till we're on the road.”

“I told you before,” Marc replied. “You're not invited.”

Duboe's grin did not waver. “Don't tell me you thought you could get your green light and all these goodies for free.”

Marc could see he was going to get nowhere by arguing. “You need to answer one question. Can you follow orders?”

Barry Duboe stowed his grin away.

“We're not investigating any longer,” Marc continued. “We're going off the grid. Our survival depends on a solid chain of command. If you come, you are subordinate to me, Lahm, and Josh Reames. Can you handle that? Yes or no.”

Duboe hesitated, then jerked a nod. “I'm a team player.”

“Josh, he's on your squad.”

“Aw, man . . .”

Marc swiveled three inches and glared.

He sighed. “Aye, sir.”

Marc kept his tone calm, his voice low. “We need to keep our team in perfect tandem. We are no longer Special Forces and Baghdad police and CIA and a Washington lackey. We are one unit. We have to show the noncoms here a single unified command. Tell me you understand.”

All three gave their quiet assent. Marc saw a new glint in Lahm's gaze, and took it as a good sign. He went on, “Our mission is rescue and recovery. Our aim is to get in and get out unnoticed. But if we have to go in guns hot, we will do so. Our survival—and theirs—depends on our professionalism.”

This time, Duboe answered for them all. “Roger that.”

“Okay. Josh, you and your men transfer Duboe's gear into the buses. The bag with the comm links travels with me.” He turned to Lahm. “Let's go have a word with your tame Iranians. Do you speak Farsi?”

“Enough.”

“Duboe, you need to be in on this.” Marc saw Josh working to hide a smile.

“What?”

“Nothing, skipper. Not a single solitary thing. We're in the green and good to go.”

Marc pointed them toward the night. “We move in ten.”