Suddenly, more Guards burst past, hot on the heels of the unarmed doctor. They had not noticed him, and the others forgot him, as they rushed after, eager to share the credit.
Ghassan had dragged himself outside, leaving a trail of blood. Many hands helped him into hiding. From then on, he had not only walked with a limp, he had abandoned all fear and dedicated his life to freeing his country. Through Dr. Mahuk, he made contact with Colonel Smith again, and he began helping an American voice on the telephone.
Tonight, Ghassan was on such a mission for the Americans. Dressed in black, he crouched on the roof of the building next door to his target — five stories of brick and mortar, pockmarked by the bullets and shells of the Americans and the Republican Guard. Now it housed the local offices of Tigris Export-Import, Ltd., Agricultural Chemicals, one of the few companies allowed to trade in the outside world. In the distance stood the towering bronze statues of the 101 martyrs of the holy war against Iran. They were only a few blocks away, silhouettes lining the boardwalk along the canal. After years of inactivity, the canal was bustling again with ships and fishing boats sailing up and down the Shatt al Arab. Their lights blinked reassuringly in the night.
At last, he heard activity at the street entrance. He peered over the parapet. The cleaning crew was strolling off while the foreman locked the door and followed. It was time. Ghassan hooked a thin cable to his harness, took a deep breath, and lowered himself over the edge. At the first row of windows, he used his suction cup and glass cutter to remove a section of glass. He reached in, unlocked the old-fashioned window, and crawled inside. Concealment of his entry was not important; that he finish his assignment undiscovered was.
Moving with speed and silence, he glided past offices and into the next building. Finally he found the office of the Tigris branch manager.
Inside, he switched on his tiny flashlight and searched the rows of filing cabinets until he found the right drawer and the right file — Flying Dragon Enterprises, Shanghai. He searched through the documents more slowly than he liked, as all the letters to and from China were in English.
There it was. The fifth document from the front — an invoice manifest.
Laboriously, he compared the English list on the document to the list dictated by the quiet American. When he finally determined they were identical, his spirits soared. The manifest was correct. After a moment of exultation, he slid the document into the plastic envelope strapped under his shirt, returned the file to the cabinet, and hurried through the offices to the window. He rehooked the cable, slipped out, and seconds later stood on the roof. As he stuffed his equipment into his small waist pack, he ran down the staircase. At the street, he fell back into the shadows, scanning all around.
A patrol vehicle packed with Republican Guardsmen drove slowly past.
The moment it was out of sight, Ghassan sprinted away. Twice more on his way home he hid as Guards out on patrol rolled by. Finally he reached his tiny room. His adrenaline still pumping, he removed his special cell phone, which was hidden beneath the planks of his floor, and dialed the American’s number. He did not know where the American’s office was. He had never asked, and the American had never offered.
“So this is how you get your orders, Ghassan? How efficient of the Americans. But then, they have many advantages we do not.”
Ghassan jerked around. The speaker’s face was hidden in shadow, while the pistol in his hand showed in the room’s gloom. “Hand me the phone and the document.”
Discovery was something Ghassan feared every day, and he had practiced well to be prepared. Without allowing himself thought or regret, he bit down on the cyanide pill in his tooth and dropped the cell phone to the floor where his foot crushed it into useless pieces. Pain tore through his body. He felt himself falling into a great darkness. As he collapsed, twisting in pain, rage burned through his mind: Death was nothing. Failure was everything, and he had failed.
Chapter Eighteen
The president’s chief of staff, Charles Ouray, wandered around the deserted sitting room in the White House residence. Dawn was breaking, and pale light flowed in through the windows. From time to time, he reached into his shirt pocket for the pack of cigarettes he had given up carrying nineteen years ago when he signed the pledge. In his early sixties, his triangular face was grim, and his movements erratic with tension.
Every five minutes, he checked his watch. As soon as he heard the door to the president’s bedroom open, he turned.
Sam Castilla emerged fully dressed and brisk, his large body svelte in a meticulously tailored suit. “When does the ambassador arrive, Charlie?”
“Twenty minutes, sir. He sounded upset. Very upset. He emphasized the matter was extremely serious and said you’d know what he was talking about. He wanted an immediate meeting. In fact, he came close to demanding one.”
“Did he now?”
Ouray was not going to be put off. “Do you, Mr. President?”
“Do I what, Charlie?”
“Know what’s got his tail thumping?” “Yes,” he said simply.
“But I don’t?” The president looked uncomfortable but said nothing.
Ouray kept his gaze steady. Sometimes prying information from the president seemed tougher than breaking into Fort Knox. Ouray said thoughtfully, “The leaks are making all of us paranoid. I found myself not telling my assistant about the defense appropriations meeting.
Clarence has been with me twenty years. I know I can trust him with my life.”
The president sighed heavily. “You’re right. I should’ve told you.” He hesitated as if still unsure. Then he grimaced and nodded, his mind made up. “It’s all about a Chinese cargo ship by the name of The Dowager Empress. It sailed from Shanghai early this month, bound for Basra. We have an unconfirmed report from a highly reliable source that it’s carrying tens of tons of thiodiglycol and thionyl chloride.”
Ouray stared. His voice rose. “Blister and nerve weapons? The Yinhe.”
“In a more ambiguous, more complicated, and more dangerous world than the Cold War. Makes one nostalgic for those awful days when it was just two hairy giants with clubs, circling in a primitive face-off. Not a pretty world, Charlie, but it was simple. Now we’ve got one really big giant, one sick giant, one sleeping giant, and a thousand wolves biting at our heels and ready at any time to go for our throats.”
Ouray nodded. “So what’s activated the ambassador?”
“They’ve probably discovered we’ve got a navy frigate shadowing their freighter.” The president was solemn. “I’d hoped we’d have more time.” He paused. “I have reason to think Beijing doesn’t, or didn’t, know about the cargo. A private deal. But that doesn’t matter, does it?”
“Unless we can prove it.”
“True.”
“Can we prove it?” Ouray asked hopefully.
“Not yet. We’re working on it.”
The two men stood for a time in silence, staring down at their polished shoes, as the president prepared himself. He was about to start dancing the dance he hated. Posturing, threatening, conciliating, verbally fencing, and flat-out lying. Stalling for time. The dangerous diplomacy ballet that could so easily turn deadly.
Finally the president sighed, opened his suit jacket, and hitched up his trousers. “Well, let’s go talk to his excellency.” He rubbed his hands together. “Battle.”
In the Oval Office, the president and his chief of staff stood politely before the president’s desk as Ambassador Wu Bangtiao entered. The ambassador of the People’s Republic of China was a tiny man with the swift, agile stride of the international soccer forward he had once been. He was dressed in a confrontational dark- blue Mao suit, but the smile on his face, while small, was amiable and possibly friendly.
The president caught the mixed message and looked at Ouray through his peripheral vision. Ouray had a small smile himself, and the president knew his longtime confederate had also understood.
“So good of you to see me on such short notice, Mr. President,” Wu Bangtiao said with a moderate
