“What do you mean?”
“While the idiots you hired were floundering around in the dark getting their fingers burned, they missed thirty cabinets with the museum’s best cylinder seals and tens of thousands of gold and silver coins.
As Ali slammed the door behind her, a rug hanging on the wall pushed aside and a man stepped through a doorway into the room.
He was tall and powerfully built. His cherubic face seemed out of place with his cruel physique, as if his close-shaven head had been attached to the wrong body. Although there was plenty of room for his features on the broad face, eyes, nose, and mouth were squeezed close together, creating an effect that was childlike and grotesque at the same time.
“A formidable woman,” said the man.
Ali spat his words out. “Carina Mechadi? She is nothing but a UNESCO busybody who thinks she can push me around.”
The stranger glanced up at the television monitor and smiled mischievously as he watched the Humvee drive off with Carina and the marines. “From what I heard, she did exactly that.”
“I survived Saddam and I can survive the Americans,” Ali said with a fierce grin.
The man shifted his gaze back to the Arab. “I trust your difficulties won’t endanger the matter we were discussing before she interrupted our negotiations.”
“Not exactly.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s been a glitch.”
The man moved closer until he loomed over the Iraqi. “What
“The
“We ordered its removal from the museum, and paid you in advance. I came to Baghdad to close the deal.”
“A buyer has come forth with a higher bid. I’ll return your deposit. Perhaps I can persuade the buyer to part with the object, although the price is likely to be greater than the one we discussed.”
The man’s gaze seemed to drill through Ali’s skull, but he maintained his smile. “You wouldn’t be holding me up for more money?”
“If you don’t want to make a deal, tough.”
Ali was still fuming over his confrontation with Carina. His anger had dulled his street smarts; otherwise, he might have sensed the menace in the quiet tone when the man whispered, “I must have the statue.”
For the first time, Ali noticed the disproportionately large hands that dangled from long, powerful-looking arms.
“I was just giving you a hard time,” Ali said with a toothy smile. “Blame it on that Italian bitch. I’ll call the warehouse on my hand radio and have the statue sent over.”
He started toward the sitting area.
“Wait,” the man said. Ali froze in midstep. The man’s grin grew even wider as he picked up the pocket radio Ali had left on the table. “Is
Ali lunged toward the seating platform and slipped his hand under a cushion. His fingers closed on the grip of his Beretta and slipped the pistol out from its hiding place.
The man moved with the swiftness of a hunting cheetah. He tossed the radio aside, grabbed Ali under the chin from behind, and twisted his arm. The pistol dropped from Ali’s hand, his body bent backward like a horseshoe on an anvil.
“Tell me where to find the
Ali was a tough man but not a particularly courageous one. He needed only a few seconds of exquisite pain to convince him that no piece of art was worth his life. “Okay, okay, I’ll tell you,” he gasped. He spit out a location.
The man stopped twisting his arm. The pain eased up. Ali’s hand drifted down to the dagger in his ankle sheath. As soon as he got free, he’d carve this creep like a pig. He never got the chance. The man’s free hand joined the other under his chin and the fingers began to squeeze. The knee came up at the same time and dug into the small of his back.
“What are you doing? I thought we had a deal,” Ali said, barely able to get the words out.
He was almost unconscious when he felt a dull snap. The grip on his chin loosened. Ali’s head lolled on his chest like a rag doll’s and he slumped to the floor. The man stepped over the still-twitching body and pushed aside the hanging rug that hid a back door to the building. Moments later, he disappeared in the maze of alleyways. It took him almost to dawn to make his way back to his hotel. He stood in the window, watching the smoke rise over the wounded city, and made a call on his satellite phone.
His benefactor’s mellifluous voice came on the phone immediately.
“I’ve been waiting for your call, Adriano,” he said.
“Sorry for the delay, sir. There were unexpected difficulties.”
Adriano described every detail of his encounter with Ali. His benefactor would know if he were lying or shading the truth.
“I’m very disappointed, Adriano.”
“I know, sir. I was under orders not to let the
“You were absolutely right to follow orders. It is important that we find the object first. We have waited nearly three thousand years. A little more time won’t matter.”
Adriano breathed a sigh of relief. He had been trained not to feel pain or fear, but he was well aware of the fate of those who displeased his benefactor. “Do you want me to try to track it down?”
“No. I’ll try to go through international channels once more. It’s becoming too dangerous there for you.”
“I’ve made arrangements to leave the country through Syria.”
“Good.” There was a pause at the other end of the line. “This woman, Carina Mechadi, may prove useful.”
“In what way, sir?”
“We shall see, Adriano. We shall see.”
The line went dead.
He grabbed his bag and closed the hotel-room door behind him. He planned to meet an oil smuggler who had promised to get him out of Iraq. In accordance with his standing orders to leave no trace of his passing, he would, of course, dispatch the man to Allah once he was safe across the border.
He smiled as he savored the prospect.
Chapter 4
THE RED CORVETTE CONVERTIBLE swung off the road, with its stereo speakers blasting salsa music like a Tijuana jukebox on wheels. The car breezed along a driveway that ran past a Victorian mansion and lawns which looked as if they had been clipped with manicure scissors. Joe Zavala pulled his car up in front of an ornate boathouse built on the banks of the Potomac River and was about to slide out from behind the steering wheel when he heard the gunshot.
As a brilliant designer of undersea craft for the National Underwater and Marine Agency, Zavala ordinarily carried nothing more lethal than a laptop computer. But his years working for NUMA’s Special Assignments Team had taught him the wisdom of the Boy Scout adage to be prepared. Zavala reached under the car seat, his fingers closed on a quick-release holster, and his hand came out with a Walther PPK handgun.
He got out of the car and made his way around the boathouse, moving with the stealth of a deer hunter. Pressing his back to the exterior wall, he edged his way to the corner and popped out into the open, gun extended with both hands and ready to find a target.
A broad-shouldered man dressed in tan shorts and white T-shirt was standing on the riverbank with his back
