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, AK47 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
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 two 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.”
Jon tried to hide a surge of fear as he remembered Jerzy Domalewski's description of the six-story underground torture and execution complex. He exchanged a look with Randi, who sat close on his left. Her face was expressionless, but he saw her hand tremble. She knew about the detention center, too. That hellhole was not survivable.
The canvas flap dropped, and they were cut off from the outside. The two guards sat back, their rifles pointed at the prisoners. There were sounds in front as the officer and other police climbed into the cab.
As the truck lurched away, Jon was silent. Because of him, Randi had been caught. He had no illusions about what they would do to a CIA spy, especially a female one. And how was he going to get word to USAMRIID and the Pentagon to tell them what he had learned about the virus and cure?
He said quietly, “We have to get out of here.”
Randi nodded. “The detention center doesn't thrill me either. But our guards are armed. Lousy odds.”
He gazed through the inky shadows at the two Iraqis, whose faces were fixed in watchful stares. Besides assault rifles, they had holstered pistols on their hips.
They bounced onto a street so narrow that the truck's canvas sides scraped the stone walls.
They had to act before it was too late. He turned to Randi..
“What?” she asked.
