ramshackle concrete-block buildings. Most of them were private homes and some had small gardens off rear courtyards, others had retail businesses on the ground floors.
He called someone on his cell phone and at the end of one very narrow street he stopped at a corrugated- metal gate, blew the horn once, and moments later the gate swung inward and Hadid drove through into a dusty courtyard. He turned around so that the nose of the Range Rover was pointed toward the gate being closed by an old man with a Kalashnikov slung over his shoulder.
“That is my uncle Fathi,” Hadid said. “I told him about Miriam and Saddam and he has agreed to help. His wives will make my family ready for burial, which must be completed before sundown today. You understand?”
“Yes,” McGarvey, thinking about the funeral for his wife and daughter. “What can I do to help?”
“Nothing, Mr. Tony. You will remain here in the car, you will speak with no one, you will make no eye contact, you will make no moves. Do you understand this completely?”
“Yes.”
“This will not take long and then I will take you to the al-Zuhoor where you have a suite.”
“I thought it was the Baghdad Hotel.”
“It is the same. But the name in Arabic is The Flowers Land. And it is in its own compound along with the Hamara Hotel, where most of the western journalists who do not want to stay in the Green Zone have rooms. It is also where many of the contractors stay. And for that I have a plan.”
His uncle came over with three other men as Hadid got out of the Range Rover and went around back and opened the hatch. No one looked at McGarvey in the passenger seat. Before they had entered the city, Hadid had stopped and raised the top.
“Do we need to hide the weapons?” McGarvey had asked.
“Here it is not necessary,” Hadid had told him, and once inside it became obvious why. Every third or fourth person seemed to be carrying a weapon of some sort, either a pistol or a Kalashnikov. The peace was still an uneasy one.
The four men removed the bodies of Hadid’s wife and son and carried them gently across the courtyard and into the house. The Range Rover’s windows were down and McGarvey heard a keening wail coming from inside, and he understood what these people were feeling now; he really understood them, and it hardened his heart further for the business ahead.
Hadid came out of the house, his face an unreadable mask, got in the car, and started it as his uncle came out and opened the gate. “Now it is time for you to go to work, or rest if need be. But if I may suggest, you should complete your business as quickly as possible. This evening. And I will come back after the funeral.”
“No,” McGarvey said. “The rest I will do alone until it’s time to leave the city.”
The al-Zuhoor was a shabby six-story hotel at the end of a street partially blocked by two concrete blast walls, almost directly across the Tigris River from the Green Zone. Next to it, but behind the same blast barriers, were the two large buildings of the Hamara Hotel.
Hadid slowed down at the gap in the walls, and eased through the opening and stopped. A pair of stern- looking men armed with Kalashnikov rifles materialized, one of them on the driver’s side, the other a few feet and slightly behind McGarvey.
“What do you want?” the guard asked Hadid in English.
“I am this man’s driver. He has a reservation here.”
“Name?”
“Mr. Tony Watkins. He is a freelance journalist.”
“American?”
“Yes.”
“Release the hood and rear hatch,” the guard said, which Hadid did.
Two other men came over, one of them searching under the Range Rover’s hood and in the back, while the other checked the undercarriage with a slanted mirror attached to the end of a long aluminum pole as the two armed guards stayed where they were.
The man at the back of the car said something, and the guard near Hadid raised his rifle a fraction. “There is blood in the back.”
“We were on the road from Basra last night,” Hadid said. “There is blood and shell casings in the backseat, and, as you can see, bullet holes in my car. But no explosives.”
The hood and rear hatch were closed and the men with the rifles stepped back.
Hadid drove up to the glass-fronted entrance, next to the restaurant. A big awning covered what had apparently once been a sidewalk from the street that was now blocked off by a chain. No one seemed to be around, and the restaurant was empty.
“Take one of the rifles and a couple magazines,” Hadid suggested.
“Let’s save them for the return trip,” McGarvey said. He had the Glock, the silencer, and three magazines of ammunition. Enough for tonight.
Hadid nodded. “I will wait for your call, Mr. Tony. Good luck.”
“I’m sorry about your wife and son.”
“They are in Paradise now, waiting for me.”
McGarvey’s reservation for five days was in order, and the bald clerk sitting on a stool behind the counter in the tiny lobby checked him in and handed him a key. No porters were around, and except for the clerk and one man who was a westerner in jeans and a light sweater sitting reading a
His suite on the sixth floor, had a view of the concrete blast barriers, and consisted of a sitting room, small bedroom, and bathroom. The place was shabby but fairly clean, and the wheezing air conditioner kept the rooms reasonably cool.
McGarvey laid his overnight bag on the bed and phoned Rencke, who answered, as usual on the first ring.
“Oh, wow, you made it,” he said. “Louise said that one of her KH-elevens picked up some trouble on the Basra Highway about the time you should’ve been there.”
“That was us. Hadid brought along his wife and son, and both of them were killed. Did you know him?”
“Not personally. But he’s done work for us since before the first Gulf War. He came highly recommended. Are you okay?”
“Yes,” McGarvey said. “I just want to do what I came to do and then get the hell out of here. Where’s Sandberger staying?”
“He has a suite in the new Ritz-Carlton. Eight-eleven. But he almost always surrounds himself with bodyguards. And honest injun, kemo sabe, if you get into a shoot-out you’ll be outnumbered and outgunned.”
“I want to get his attention,” McGarvey said. “I want him to know that I’m here, and why. And I want that to get back to the Friday Club in spades.”
“Go easy.”
“I want to hurt him,” McGarvey said.
“Jesus.”
McGarvey broke the connection then lay down on the bed to get a few hours’ rest, something, it seemed, that he hadn’t gotten for a very long time. But this evening he would need to be in top form.
FORTY-FOUR
Sandberger had just sat down for lunch alone at a table in the Ritz-Carlton’s dining room and ordered a Bombay martini straight up with a twist when his encrypted sat phone vibrated in his pocket. It was Weiss calling from the Baghdad Hotel across the river.
“He showed up a couple of minutes ago,” he said. “I waited to see what room he was given. He’s in suite six-oh-seven.”
