The Aleppo Code (The Jerusalem Prophecies) (36 page)

They were gathered around a small conference table in the aft section of the cabin. “So there’s nothing else I can do to help?” asked Krupp.

“You could give us a ride back to Jerusalem,” said Rizzo. “It’s a long walk from here.”

Tom was surprised when Krupp hesitated.

“I can try,” said the industrialist. “It’s getting very dangerous, very quickly out there. I need to get back to Jerusalem to make sure our interests—our men and our equipment—are protected as much as possible. But I’ll send the plane back once I reach Jerusalem, if I can. The Israelis could shut down their airspace at any time. What do you plan to do when we land?”

Annie Bohannon started to open her map case, but thought better of it. “The
National Geographic
crew will be there, but our arrival has been managed by Latiffa Naouri, the chief historian of the Iraqi Antiquities Commission. We worked together the last time I did a shoot in Egypt, and she’s arranged for our entry visas. We’ll be in good hands.”

11:54 a.m., Baghdad

Four dusty and battered Land Rovers that appeared to be on their last legs pulled up beside the black Lincoln and out poured eight men—as grimy and dusty as the Land Rovers—who had just spent the better part of a month living in the desert. In their well-worn and varied work clothes, these men had the appearance of commandos more than photographers on a remote shoot.

They joined the woman standing next to the Lincoln, all eyes staring down the runway.

Inside the commercial aviation terminal, in a small maintenance room at the corner of the building, a tall, thin, dark-skinned man in the blue coveralls of the airport maintenance team gazed intently out a dust-encrusted window. The sun was on the far side of the building, so his vantage point gave him a clear view of the Gulfstream as it pulled alongside the knot of waiting people. Even though he had been called and told to be watchful, he doubted he could ever be of use to the leader. It was only when the little man bounded down the stairs to the tarmac that he realized these were the ones who were sought.

With the Lincoln Town Car in the lead, the four battered Land Rovers followed one behind another, made a U-turn and headed toward the south gate of the commercial aviation complex.

Only when the convoy left the airport compound, on the road south, did the man pull his mobile phone from the pocket of his coveralls and—his heart beating faster than a spinning propeller blade—punch in the number he was given should this very circumstance become a reality.

“Hello? Yes, this is Taurog. I work at the Baghdad airport. I was told to call you if—”

“You have seen them?”

“Yes. A Gulfstream landed not long ago. It was met by four Land Rovers … a group of photographers and film makers from
National Geographic
who arrived last month.”

“How do you know it was the ones we seek?”

Taurog wiped the sleeve of his shirt over his perspiring brow and tried to slow his heartbeat. “Two men and a woman, but it was the little one who convinced me. He came out last. Black hair, thick glasses, about 120 centimeters tall.”

There was the sound of muted conversation in the background. “You have done well. You and your family will be rewarded. Thank yo—”

“Wait!” Fear and excitement roiled around in his stomach as Taurog realized he was almost yelling. So close to reward, he would not fail now. “Naouri was with them, the chief historian of the Iraqi Antiquities Commission.”

“How do you know this?”

“She is very popular. Her photo is often in the newspaper or on television. Everyone in Baghdad knows Naouri and what she’s doing.” Taurog took a breath to slow his racing heart.

“And what
is
she doing?” The voice was growing more agitated.

“Babylon … she is trying to save Babylon. Since the fall of Saddam, the Babylon he built on the ruins has been ravaged by the poor, looting the city for its bricks. Naouri is trying to save what’s left of the ancient bricks from the looters. She wages a losing campaign. But,” said Taurog, “what is most important is that Naouri greeted the American woman as if they were old friends or sisters. Perhaps you should consider Babylon?”

It looked like any other tobacco shop on the outskirts of Baghdad, not very prosperous and covered by desert dust and ancient smoke. The old man standing by the door folded up the cell phone as he leaned against the wall. Leader of the Iraqi division of the Muslim Brotherhood’s clandestine enforcers, the Special Apparatus, the old man had been told of the change in leadership but, still, was surprised when the call came from Saudi Arabia. Now it was his job to find the American team and stop them—at all costs.

The four-vehicle convoy kicked up rooster tails as it sped down a highway covered with dry, tawny sand. Annie was in the front passenger seat of the leading Rover, trying to see out a front windshield that was half covered by a spider web of fractures.

“You guys must be on a pretty tight budget, Mike,” she said to the driver. “Couldn’t the magazine afford to get you a few more respectable vehicles?”

“Part of the plan,” said Mike Whalen. “These beat-up old Rovers are as important to us as our equipment. We don’t want new vehicles. We don’t want to look too prosperous. It’s like the Wild West out here. There’s no government, virtually no police. With four vehicles, we are noticeable, but we also appear formidable with the crew we’ve got. And for all the natives know, we could be a rogue military unit. Low profile is our middle name.”

Whalen and his photo-video crew were a hand-picked bunch with a unique combination of skill sets.

Whalen was an ex–Navy SEAL, a head short of six feet tall with a wild shock of curly, white-blond hair that seemed to be permanently windblown from the Harley in his garage at home. He had the compact build and fluid motion of a man who understood and was comfortable with his own strength. Whalen converted his military specialty, underwater photography of targets and defenses, into a keen eye for the drama of light and contrast. His crew of eight did include an Emmy-winning filmmaker and photographer, Leo Matkins, who couldn’t fight his way out of a paper bag, but who could conjure up unforgettable broadcast images that stayed with viewers long after the TV was quieted for the night.

But Matkins was an acceptable exemption because his two equipment handlers—Grant Bowman and Michael Papa—were both former Big Ten offensive linemen who ceaselessly argued the relative merits of Michigan and Ohio State. The vehicle wrangler and mechanic, Sal Molluzzo, was a Ranger master sergeant who did two tours in Afghanistan; the sound man was a long, lean Brit, James Leonard, who spent six years running terrorist surveillance for MI5; but Whalen’s two go-to guys were both ex-marines and former NYPD Anti-Terrorism Task Force veterans, Fred Atkins and Steve Vordenberg, who had become first-rate lighting techs, but whose main job was often to keep them all alive.

Under the floorboards of the Land Rovers was enough firepower to keep away any roving band of Iraqi marauders, and the team was equipped with the Harris Falcon III handheld, multi-band radios, the AN/PRC-152 in use by most American and NATO armed forces.

“Whalen, your team is about as low profile as a kick in the teeth,” said Annie. “But God knows these guys are the only way you could operate here and the other inhospitable places
Geographic
has sent you. I feel a lot more comfortable having them along.”

“So who is the woman in the Lincoln?” Whalen asked.

“An old friend,” Annie replied. “Latiffa Naouri, the chief historian of the Iraqi Antiquities Commission. We met on my assignment to the Valley of the Kings. We were both early in our careers, and Latiffa was educated in the States. We spent two weeks together and just connected. Latiffa always knew her career in Egypt would be limited because she was a woman. Which is one of the reasons, I believe, that she jumped at the chance when the position here was offered.

“But she had more than a career change reason to leave Egypt. Her father was a prominent Cairo University professor who campaigned openly for a more moderate Islam. But his enemies were powerful.

“Most people don’t know that Egypt was the birthplace of Al Qaeda. Ayman al-Zawahiri, the mastermind of 9/11 and Bin Laden’s second-in-command, was the founder of Islamic Jihad in Egypt in 1980. In 1981, Islamic Jihad was behind the assassination of Egyptian President Anwar Sadat. Over the years, Islamic Jihad operated in the shadows, but it grew in size and power, finally evolving into Al Qaeda in 1998. At the beginning, al-Zawahiri was a Muslim Brotherhood activist in charge of the Brotherhood’s secret squads, the Special Apparatus. Latiffa’s father was murdered by the Special Apparatus because of his opposition to Islamic fundamentalism. And she is aware that her position here in Iraq would become tenuous if the power of the Islamic radicals continues to grow. I thought the Brotherhood was dangerous, but they look almost humane when stacked up against groups like ISIS. I didn’t have to tell her much before she was anxious to help.”

“What kind of help can she give us?” asked Whalen.

“Access to Babylon,” she said. “And the freedom to move about. There is some security, trying to keep the site from being looted, but they are not very effective. Naouri will make sure we have plenty of room to operate.”

Whalen didn’t take his eyes off the thin ribbon of asphalt that was visible in the middle of the road, but Annie Bohannon could tell he was assessing her and the reasons she had arrived in Baghdad.

“I’ll tell you about it when we get there,” said Annie.

Following Annie’s instructions, the
National Geographic
crew avoided the hotels in Hillah and set up a tent camp out in the desert, in a dry riverbed that was once the Tigris River, ten miles southeast of Babylon. Whalen and his team erected a handful of black tents, two of which housed the resting Land Rovers. From a distance, they might look like a typical Bedouin camp. Except minus the goats and horses, and none of them wore the traditional dress of the desert wanderers. Annie hoped no prying eyes would get too close.

They gathered in the largest tent, Annie’s team along with Naouri, Whalen, and the two NYPD veterans.

“Are you going to tell us what we’re here to do?” said Whalen.

Annie had a decision to make. She came to Iraq with the rights and responsibilities of a leader. This was her expedition, and she could keep it that way by holding on to control. But she knew, in her mind and her heart, that while she could competently lead a photo team, this quest was not hers to lead. It belonged in Tom’s hands.

“That’s a long story, Mike, and one in which I’ve only played a relatively small part.” She turned her attention to her husband. “Tom, why don’t you and the guys fill in Mike and his crew about how this started, where it’s taken you so far, and why we’re here today. That will take awhile. I’ve heard this story before and I’m hungry. So, Tom, you talk, and I’ll cook.”