Hostile Fire (15 page)

“Any contacts that wouldn’t get you in trouble?” Murdock asked.

Gypsy wrinkled her brow. She had pulled her dark hair back into a ponytail and had not put on any makeup. “I paint pictures, not my face,” she had told them the first thing that morning.

She shook her head, then stopped. “Oh, there could be one but it’s an outside chance. When things get slow, I teach master classes in beginning oil painting. It’s easy and brings in a few extra dinars.” She took a long drink of her coffee, frowning and shaking her head. “No, probably not.”

“Hey, if there’s a chance, and it won’t hurt you, we have to give it a try,” Murdock said.

She took another sip of the coffee and put down the cup. “It is a long shot. One of my students has a big family, and he said one of his brothers had been on what he called a fishing trip into the desert. He’s an engineer, specializes in putting up buildings for the government. His brother had laughed and said his kin went on four fishing trips and didn’t bring back a single fish.”

“Fishing trip, the same term the construction worker used,” Murdock said. “Let’s get in contact with the engineer.”

“Do you have a list of those students?” Rafii asked.

“Should be here somewhere.”

Five minutes later she found the list and ticked off the brother of the engineer.

“How do we get him to tell us how to get in touch with his brother, without getting suspicious?” Ching asked.

“More coffee, please,” Murdock said. The five sat at the table, working on the third cup.

John Jones stood and walked around the kitchen. When he sat down, he grinned. “Got it,” he said. “Gypsy, you contact this guy and tell him you’re giving another master class, and you’re short one person. Ask him if his brother would like to take the class. A lot of engineers think they’re artists. It could work. Get his phone number or address so you can invite him to the class.”

Gypsy laughed softly. “My friend, Mr. Jones, you are a sneaky bastard, but I like you. I think it might work. I have something of a reputation around town. He might be pleased to be invited to study under the great Gypsy.”

Rafii let out a long-held-in breath. “That’s good, but what can I do? I keep thinking about all those construction workers. A lot of them must be out of work now. Where do they hang out? They don’t have a union hall, but there must be a spot where they get together and swap lies.”

Gypsy grinned and pointed a spoon at him. “Rafii, how did you know that? You haven’t lived here since you were four, you said.”

“My father was a carpenter here. I remember what he used to tell us about working.”

“There is a spot, two of them actually,” Gypsy said. “The men do talk and tell tales about their work. It could be a good place to go if you can listen a lot, talk little, and blend in.”

“I’m a top-notch blender,” Rafii said.

“I’ll give you the two addresses. Take my car. Both these places are across town. Right now I want to call my ex-student and see if we can talk to his brother.”

A half hour later, Rafii pulled Gypsy’s sedan of uncertain vintage to the curb and watched the coffee house across the street. It was not one that offered jazz as a sideline. No boisterous crowd. In the outside chairs and tables he saw men,
only men, bending over cups of coffee. One or two had tall drinks of some kind. He slid out of the car and walked up a block, then crossed the street and came back on the other side. He went into the shop, bought a cup of coffee, and eased back out to a table with no one else at it. He listened. The men talked in low voices and he could make out nothing.

A few minutes later the place filled with men, most in working clothes, some with beards, most without. Two came up to his table and motioned. He waved them to chairs and they gave their names. Ali was the tall, thin one. Sami was shorter, heavy with a beard. He told them his name and they nodded. They talked to one another, not trying to include him. This time he could hear.

“No work again today?” Ali said.

“True, not for two weeks now,” Sami said.

“Maybe we’re in the wrong business. My wife’s brother is a baker and he’s making a good living.”

“But he works all night,” Sami protested. “I like to sleep at night.”

Ali looked at Rafii. “No work for you either?”

“Not much of anything since the desert. The fishing trip was fine but now, nothing.”

Both men frowned. “We are not supposed to even remember the desert,” Sami said. “We could be shot.”

“Who is listening?” Rafii asked in a soft voice. “Besides that was a year ago.”

“By now you must be hungry,” Sami said with a chuckle.

“I mean I haven’t had a job that lasted more than a week,” Rafii said, figuring he had overplayed his hand.

“The fishing was good, but that damn long ride each way was what killed me,” Sami said.

“Still, I’d do it again,” Ali said.

“Carpenter?” Rafii asked.

“No. Concrete, forms, slabs, even some liftup concrete walls.”

“Good work,” Rafii said. “I’m just a carpenter.”

“The damn trip was what killed me,” Sami said. “Eight hours in that damn covered truck.”

“We did it in seven,” Rafii said. “You must have stopped somewhere.”

“Oh, yeah, forgot. We had to stop for fuel in Ar Rutbah. Then that damn dirt road due south.”

“Dust got into everything,” Rafii said. “Why didn’t they pave it or put the blacktop down?”

“That would make it an arrow straight at the secret place,” Ali said. “They aren’t that stupid. They camouflaged the dirt road after every truck went down it. Fake bushes and brush. It was a lot of work.”

“Is the government hiring again?” Rafii asked. “Heard something about work out at the airport.”

“Just talk,” Ali said. “We’ve been hearing that for a month now. They might never get to extending that runway.”

Rafii finished his coffee. He stood. “Maybe there’ll be something tomorrow,” he said. He waved and walked down the street a block, crossed over, and strolled back to the car. For a moment he wasn’t sure which car he had come in. Then he remembered the dent in the left front fender and climbed in. Yes, the key fit and engine started. So they were south of Ar Rutbah. Now all they had to figure out was how far south.

By the time Rafii had driven back to the old warehouse where Gypsy lived and painted, she was pacing the floor waiting for him. He told them what he had discovered, and Ching got the SATCOM out and set it up to broadcast.

Gypsy grabbed the car keys and headed for the street. “I told my student’s brother that I’d meet the engineer at a cafe, and I’m going to be late. So he’ll have to wait. Not sure what I can find out, but we’ll see what he says about painting, and about the desert. Maybe I can talk him into painting some desert scenes. This shouldn’t take more than two hours at the most.”

She had changed clothes and now wore a colorful skirt, a blouse that barely hid her breasts, a red scarf around her neck, and a light linen jacket. She also wore makeup, but just a little.

Ching had the SATCOM set up at an open window in the back of the second floor of the building where the dish antenna could look into the sky. The improved SATCOM had a dish that was barely four inches in diameter, much smaller than the one Ching was used to. It also was twice as easy to zero in on the satellite. He made the adjustments and handed the mike to Murdock.

“Underground One reporting. We have a location. In the desert south of Ar Rutbah, a small village on the highway to Jordan. Don’t know how far south. On a dirt road. We’ll get there as soon as we can. Running down one more lead. Underground out.”

The message went out in a burst that lasted only a tenth of a second and would be almost impossible to triangulate, even if the Iraqis were listening for any broadcasts. They put the SATCOM away and Murdock began pacing.

“How long do we wait for Gypsy?” he asked Jones. The former CIA agent shook his head.

“She’ll be back when she thinks she has what we need. No telling when that will be.”

“We need transportation,” Murdock said. He looked at Jones. “Can you get us a car with a full tank of gas that will run until we get to that little town out in the desert?”

Jones frowned. “You want a throwaway car? Why not just steal one?” He shrugged. “Yeah, I know. Even the Iraqi police can find a stolen car now and then. So let me make a call. I have at least one favor coming in this town. You want an older car that runs well. Let me use Gypsy’s phone.”

He left the room and Murdock had his two men check what equipment they had. They would be ready to move as soon as Gypsy came back.

Jones was back in five minutes.

“Done,” he said. “It’s a four-year-old Chevrolet, of all things. Runs good and has good tires. What you do is use it as long as you can. In two days the owner is going to report it stolen. That way he should get it back without any problem. The cops here are good on returning stolen cars when they find them.”

“When do we get the car?” Murdock asked. “We know enough to get moving right now.”

“You’re not ready yet. You’ll need food and water. Lots of water. It’s going to be a hundred and twenty in the desert for the next week. Sap the juices right out of you. You’ll need at least a gallon of water a day. It’s almost two o’clock. Best to travel at night. So get some rest now, and I’ll get food for you to eat before you go and for the trip. Meat now, cheese sandwiches for later. We don’t want any spoiled meat in the desert heat. Go, go get some sleep. It won’t be dark for six hours yet, and the car won’t be here for two. Go.”

Murdock grinned and waved his men up the stairs, where they saw some mattresses on the floor. John Jones watched them go. He chuckled. He hadn’t had this much fun in years. Maybe it was time he reactivated himself and got back in the spy business. He could send out a message in his old manner. Or he could have Murdock tell the brass to reinstate him. He’d be back in business. Yeah, he had to admit that he kind
of missed the rush he used to get in this business. The last day and a half had been good. Now to get some food and water and the car.

Gypsy walked into the Lily of the Nile Cafe slowly, trying to watch everything around her without seeming to. She didn’t want this to be a trap she couldn’t get out of. She saw the young man sitting alone at a table near the window, where he was supposed to be. He looked up and nodded. He must have known what she looked like.

She could spot no Secret Police at tables or loitering around the area. Gypsy walked over to the table.

“Hassan?”

He stood quickly, not a trait found in many Muslim men.

“Yes, and you’re Gypsy. My brother has been raving about you ever since he failed one of your oil classes.”

“Aren’t you nice. Thank you.” He made no move to help her sit down. They dropped into the chairs.

“I’m having something carbonated,” he said, his voice lower now than she had expected. He looked to be about thirty, clean shaven, with darting dark eyes and full brows. He wore a business suit, white shirt and tie, and she knew he must be with some large engineering firm in town.

“I’m not quite sure what it is I’m drinking, but it’s cold and it’s legal. May I order you one?”

She nodded. “Please. I usually don’t venture out in the heat of the day this way. So, are you interested in my next oil class, or was your brother just fooling me?”

He sipped at his drink, then nodded. “Oh, no, I’ve dabbled in painting from time to time. I like acrylic the most, but I should have a better foundation in oils. When do your classes start?”

“Next month. I’m lining up students now. The class costs five dinars a session.”

“That’s not a problem, but something else is. Did my brother say anything about what I do?”

“He says you’re one of the best engineers in the city for getting large buildings put up. He’s proud of you.”

“That’s all he said?”

“He didn’t give me a résumé of your work, nothing like that.”

“Good. Now that you’ve seen that I’m not a monster, may I take your class?”

“Yes, you just passed the test. Oh, your brother did say something that surprised me. He said you had been fishing in the desert. What in the world did he mean by that?”