A few kilometers north of the Iraqi town of Safwan, which was on the main north-south highway, Hadid pulled off the paved road, doused the headlights, and headed east into the desert toward the even smaller town of Umm Qash.
“I have a cousin there,” Hadid said. “He and his two brothers and one cousin, my wife’s nephew, all work in the oil fields across the border.”
“Are we going to cross with them?” McGarvey asked.
Hadid shook his head. “Too dangerous for them, and I promised they wouldn’t become involved. But I know this border area. The crossing will be easy.”
The two towns were only twenty-five kilometers apart and yet after fifteen minutes of driving fairly fast, there were no signs of lights out ahead, though to the south waste gas fires from wellheads lit up the night sky with an eerie glow. This place was otherworldly and had been ever since the first Gulf War, when the invading Iraqi army had set most of those wells on fire. The air tasted of crude oil.
At one point the rough track dipped down into a shallow valley and Hadid stopped. “We’ll bury your weapon and old papers here, but you may keep your satellite telephone.”
He took a small shovel and a Kuwaiti Gulfmart Supermarket plastic bag from the back of the Range Rover, and dug a shallow hole in the sand a few feet away. He put McGarvey’s things into the bag, tied it shut, and buried it.
“Will you come back for at least the pistol?” McGarvey asked.
“No need, Mr. James. Guns are plentiful here.” He grinned in the darkness. “Maybe in five thousand years an archaeologist will dig it up and it will be placed in a museum of antiquities.” He laughed.
It struck McGarvey that Hadid was trying very hard to find something to laugh about after having lost his wife and son. But there was nothing more to say, and he couldn’t find the will yet to look for humor in his own life. But then he didn’t have Hadid’s faith in a Paradise.
Back in the car, they waited with the engine running. Ten minutes later Hadid glanced at his watch, and two minutes after that they spotted the glow of a pair of headlights traveling east to west in the general direction of Safwan.
“That is the Kuwait Army patrol,” Hadid said. “Five minutes late.”
They waited another full five minutes, before Hadid put the Range Rover in gear and they continued down the valley for about five or six kilometers until a hundred meters from an oil rig they bumped up onto a dirt road and turned west toward the highway back down to Kuwait City, reaching the pavement ten minutes later.
McGarvey powered up the sat phone and when it had acquired a bird, phoned Otto, who answered on the second ring. The man never slept. “You made it across the border.”
“We’re on our way down to Kuwait City. What’s the word on the ground in Washington?”
“All hell is breaking loose on just about every site on the Internet. We’re in lockdown mode here, and the entire country is in an uproar about the president’s lack of a strong response over the IED in Arlington.”
McGarvey’s hand tightened on the phone. “Any leads on who did it?”
“None,” Otto said. “But the Bureau is taking big heat from the White House because they haven’t bagged you yet. It’s the only thing Langdon can do, except wring his hands. His advisers have convinced him that you’re a traitor over the Pyongyang thing last year, and nothing any of us can say to him makes any difference. It’s spooky, Mac, honest injun.”
“Anything about the situation in Baghdad?”
“The Bureau had it eight or nine hours ago, which makes me think someone in Sandberger’s outfit has a friend in the building. They even knew about your Tony Watkins ID, and they’re waiting for you right now at Dulles.”
“I’ve already switched IDs to Hopkins.”
“How does Hadid think you look?”
“Good enough,” McGarvey said.
“I can book you into LaGuardia if you want to avoid a possible hassle,” Otto suggested.
“Make it Dulles. I think I can get past the Bureau guys, but I’m pretty sure that Admin will have someone posted out there as well, and I want a shot at spotting them.”
“Give me a minute or two and I’ll see what I can do,” Otto said, and he was gone.
Traffic was picking up now the closer they got to al Kuwait, but almost all of it was convoys headed north. It was a never-ending stream 24/7.
Hadid glanced over at him. “Was that Mr. Otto?”
“Yes.”
A big grin crossed Hadid’s face. “I met him last year in Washington. He is a strange and wondrous creature. Very brilliant. Very…” He searched for the word. “Exotic.”
“Eccentric,” McGarvey said.
Otto was back. “Can you make it to the airport by ten-thirty?”
McGarvey relayed the question to Hadid who nodded vigorously and sped up. “Just.”
“We’ll make it.”
“I’m booking you first class on United 981. Leaves at eleven forty-five your time, and touches down here at six forty-seven tomorrow morning.”
“Good enough,” McGarvey said. “They’ll be watching for Tony Watkins, and someone’s bound to sit up and take notice if he doesn’t show.”
“Get me a minute, I’m looking at the passenger manifest and pulling up passports. My darlings are looking for a reasonable match with Tony Watkins.” Rencke’s darlings were his custom-designed computer programs.
The lights of al Kuwait lit up the night sky and the tops of some of the taller skyscrapers were beginning to dot the horizon.
“Okay, I have a match, but I won’t put it into place until you guys are aboard and airborne. Real name’s Fred Irwin, works for State as a deputy assistant secretary for communications. When he gets off in Washington he’ll be pegged as Tony Watkins. Should tie everybody up long enough for you to get clear. But it won’t take long for the Bureau guys to realize who he really is, so you’ll have to hustle.”
“Have a rental car waiting for me,” McGarvey said.
“Too slow. I’ll pick you up myself.”
“Bring me a weapon, and a silencer.”
“Will do,” Otto said. “And you better get some sleep on the flight over. I think you’re gonna need it.”
Hadid pulled up at United’s departures area five minutes after ten-thirty. The long sweep of the driveway was busy with cars, taxis, and buses. A lot of flights heading west across the top of the African continent left around this time, for arrival in New York, Washington, Atlanta, and Miami first thing in the morning. The fourteen- hour nonstop flight was grueling for coach, but actually pleasant in business class and especially in first class.
McGarvey gathered his overnight bag. “Thanks for your help,” he said.
Hadid shrugged and smiled shyly. “It was for a good cause. My family’s cause. I am getting paid very well.”
McGarvey nodded. “I’m sorry about your wife and son.”
“But you don’t understand, Mr. Kirk, a Muslim’s grief is short-lived because it is tempered by joy. Go in peace.”
“
PART THREE
The Next Day
FIFTY-THREE
