The Aleppo Code (The Jerusalem Prophecies) (37 page)

The story told, and everyone fed, the expanding team sat around a camp table, waiting for direction. “So what’s the plan?” Whalen was at the end of the camp table with Leo Matkins to his right, Vordenberg and Atkins to his left. Naouri sat beside Annie.

“Well, Vince said we could have you guys work with us for a week,” said Annie.

“But I don’t think we have a week,” Tom interjected. “One of the few constants in this whole crazy escapade is that the bad guys have been one jump ahead of us almost all the way. Every time we think we’ve gotten away from the Prophet’s Guard, somebody with a lightning bolt amulet shows up. Or somebody sent by the Muslim Brotherhood. And here we are now, right in their back yard. If we weren’t safe in New York, or in Jerusalem, I think we’d be crazy to think we’ve got a lot of time here. We should expect to get discovered tomorrow and have to escape immediately.”

Silence greeted Tom’s warning as all eyes at the table fell on him.

“There is no escaping the
al-nizam al-khas,
the Special Apparatus of the Brotherhood,” said Naouri. “They are everywhere. They have eyes everywhere. And they are heartless murderers, Westerner or Muslim doesn’t matter. I thought I escaped them when I left Egypt after my father was murdered. But I know they watch me here. So, no, you do not have a week. You may not have a day.”

“Then we can’t wait,” said Annie. “Latiffa, can we get into Babylon today and still have some light so we can set up a shoot?”

“If you leave now.”

“Okay, then. We’re going on a reconnaissance mission. We follow the directions and we see where that takes us. If we find the portal, we go in tomorrow at sunrise. Mike, bring all the gear we need.”

“The Rovers and the cameras are always loaded and ready to go. We’ll need to leave two guys here to guard the camp.”

“Latiffa, can you get us to the Lion of Babylon?”

“Certainly. That is not difficult.”

“Good,” said Annie. “Then while Matkins and his crew are shooting the Lion, some of us will go for a walk as if we’re looking for locations. All of you, grab a hat and let’s go.”

Annie was on her way to her tent, passing Whalen and the two NYPD vets, and overheard Whalen’s lowered voice. “Fred, unlock the weapons. Offense and defense. You ride with me and we’ll split up the civilians.”

She stopped, knelt on one knee, and tightened the laces on her boot. “Steve, you take Matkins, Rodriguez, and Rizzo with you. First, go find James and tell him to get his British butt in gear and scout in front of us. Bowman can ride with him, and they should rig some diversion in case it gets hot in Babylon. Make sure everybody has fresh batteries in their radios. Papa and Molluzzo will stay here with one of the Rovers as backup and wire the perimeter for us while we’re gone.”

Annie got back to her feet and kept moving to get her pack, but now she felt like she was going to war.

Following Naouri’s vehicle, the
National Geographic
crew pulled off the rutted and decaying back road and onto a sandy track in the midst of the bleak and barren desert, a small, wooden sign in Arabic the only indication that something other than wasteland was in the vicinity. She waved from the back window of the black Lincoln Town Car, the three Land Rovers fell in behind, and they moved off down the track. Little more than eroded tire indentations, the track wove in and out of the ubiquitous sand dunes toward the west.

Ten minutes later, the Lincoln slowed and came to rest beside a small, brick guardhouse. A red-and-white-striped barrier blocked the desert track. A guard who looked as bleak and weathered as the surrounding landscape ambled absently to the car, barely scanned the credentials handed out the window, and waved the caravan onward as he leaned on the end of the barrier to lift it out of the way.

“Not a lot of security out here,” said Tom, watching the limited exchange.

“This is the back door,” said Whalen. “The main entrance is west of here, over by the Euphrates River. That’s where the Ishtar Gate is, overlooking the river. But there are too many eyes on that side.”

“Surprising, though,” said Tom. “If this is one of the entrances to the ancient city of Babylon, I would have expected a little more than a senior citizen to be guarding the treasure.”

“There’s no discipline out here,” said Whalen. “No police outside Baghdad, almost no government. One thing Saddam accomplished was discipline. It’s almost vanished since our invasion took him out. Not just here, but all over Iraq. A great, untold disaster of the Iraq war is the massive looting and devastation that occurred to museums and schools and historic locations around the country. The destruction of irreplaceable national treasures was wanton and savage. In a way, we’re lucky there’s even this level of security this far from Baghdad. Otherwise, Babylon might have ceased to exist again.”

A gritty dust, thrown up in the Lincoln’s wake, peppered the Land Rover’s windshield, distracting Tom so that the convoy was turning down a lane of red-brick buildings before he began to register that they had entered the city. Making the turn, Whalen pulled farther to the right, releasing the Land Rover from the Lincoln’s wake. A long avenue stretched out in front of them, a seemingly endless monotony of mud-red brick—walls, buildings, towers. Tom could easily see the difference between the ancient, original brick and the newer, more uniform bricks used by Saddam Hussein to rebuild New Babylon upon the Old.

“Impressive, but boring,” Annie observed from the back seat. “Saddam needed a decorator.”

The black car turned left, the convoy in tow, and emerged from the rebuilt city headed south. The line of vehicles drew abreast of a large crater to their right, and came to a halt.

Naouri got out of the Lincoln and walked back to the first Rover as Tom was checking out the crater. There were actually two gigantic holes in the desert. The first was more irregular in its shape, rusted tools and discarded metal beams strewn about its cusp. The first crater angled down more than fifty feet to a flat space that surrounded the second crater.

Scrub trimmed the rim in washed-out green, and it was easy to make out the edges of the massive, square hole in the ground. But nearly impossible to gauge its depth.

Naouri removed her sunglasses and pointed into the black abyss. “I wanted you to see this before we headed over to the Lion. Saddam Hussein was entranced by many things. One was rebuilding the ancient power of Persia, and her capital of Babylon. Another was to uncover any trace of the Tower of Babel. Years before the first invasion, Saddam somehow diverted one of the Russian surveillance satellites circling the globe and got it to fly over this area. The scans and photos showed this cavernous hole under the surface. Its square shape was so distinct, there was no doubt the crater was man-made.

“It took seven years for the engineers and workers to uncover the crater—the foundation of the tower—in a way that wouldn’t result in tons of dirt burying the base of the foundation. They finished the work not long before the Americans came back the second time. Saddam never got to set his eyes on his discovery. And it’s sat here, fairly undisturbed, ever since.”

Naouri went back to the Lincoln, and they drove farther into the city.

5:01 p.m., Baghdad

Gamal Muhammad entered the tobacconist shop, creating swirling vortexes as he passed through the heavy, blue-gray haze created by the six hookahs being smoked at the perimeter of the outer room. He rounded a small counter manned by an attendant who was as dark and wrinkled as an old cigar, opened a door, and entered a back room where the air was clear. His master had the windows open, the dusty curtains finding intermittent life in the occasional breeze, the pungent smell of auto exhaust and decaying produce from Baghdad’s fruit market masking everything else.

Muhammad fell into the upholstered chair facing the desk, the toll of his all-night vigil weighing heavily on his skin and bones. “They arrived in Babylon about an hour ago.”

“And from where did they come?”

His master’s voice was calm, pleasant, as if they were speaking of a mutual friend. But Muhammad knew the edge that lay just below the surface, an edge he did not wish to approach. “We don’t know. We’ve searched for them from the time we were informed of their arrival. We’ve been up and down the road from here to Hillah. I personally led a group through the streets, seeking knowledge of their presence. None was to be found. We were looking in the desert when word came that they were already on-site, looking at different locations. They must have come in from the east, through the back gate. There is no communication there.”

Muhammad’s concentration was on the floorboards, but he could feel the fierceness of his master’s displeasure.

“They are strangers here. You were born in this desert. You know it as well as you know your own face.” The voice was quiet but powerful. “You know what we’ve been ordered to accomplish. Go. Now. Follow them. Find out where they are searching and prevent them from finding what they seek—or take it from them. And finally put an end to that Egyptian woman’s meddling life. He was very clear about our mission. Complete it and you will be well rewarded. Fail? Well, your family will not like the price of your failure.”

5:04 p.m., Babylon

Naouri directed her driver to bypass Procession Street, one of the few intact streets in Babylon and one of the few elements of the ancient city protected in any way. Saddam had restored the high walls that flanked the bricked street along its entire length, making it easy to restrict access. But the convoy had little trouble navigating the unpaved, serpentine side streets coming through the city. Rather than drive through the Ishtar Gate, Naouri avoided the most visible landmark of Babylon and skirted its entrance to the north.

She led the vehicles alongside a wide, flat stone plaza covered with the blown grit of the Iraqi desert. The driver brought her Lincoln to a halt at the still-standing corner of a building, its walls about two and a half meters high for about six meters on each side of the corner, then stepping down to the plaza in various stages of decay.

The combined team piled out of the vehicles and joined Naouri at the southern edge of the crumbling western wall. “This is a good place to leave the vehicles. They’ll have a little shade, and they are out of the main routes taken by most visitors.”

Mike Whalen grabbed a duffel of gear, eased toward the MI5 veteran, James Leonard, and lowered his voice. “Once we have the gear unloaded, take one of the SUVs and drive over to that rise there.” He pointed to the west. “Get on the high ground and keep an eye out. Watch our backs, okay?”

“It would be my pleasure,” said Leonard. “We appear to be dangerously exposed here … long sight lines … little cover. Perhaps I should enquire of our Italian duo, Mr. Papa and Mr. Molluzzo, and request them to get into position as backup?”

“Good idea,” Whalen nodded. “Have them set up a rally point on the far side of the pit where the tower was built. And you, be careful, the sun will be behind you. Stay close to the ground.”

“Like a woodchuck, mate. Like an invisible woodchuck.”

“Whatever …” With a languid ease that belied any concern, Whalen returned to the edge of the main group where Naouri was holding court.