Fox Hunter

by Zoe Sharp

“Talk, Professor.”

  Eyes on the money, he said, “I told him that I could not help him. Sometimes I know the origination of the artifacts brought to me, and often I am able to verify their authenticity. But that is all.”

  “So this ‘introduction’ you offered . . . ?”

  “I await to be contacted when they are ready to trade.” He gave an apologetic shrug. “Not the other way around.”

  “What else did he want to know?”

  “He wanted to know where they were going when they left Iraq, how they were transported. That, I do not know. There has been much upheaval in recent months. The situation in the north of my country has . . . changed.” He gave a shiver that was not feigned. “So that I do not wish to know.”

  I couldn’t see Sean going away satisfied with so little. “What else?”

  “Nothing, I swear!”

  “So, he came to see you, brought you a similar artifact, concealed in a similar way?”

  “Yes!”

  “What did he bring?”

  Lihaibi looked puzzled at the question. “A . . . piece of tablet—most likely made of clay—covered in early pictographic writing.”

  “Cuneiform?” There was something about being patronized that brought out the show-off in me.

  “Ah . . . yes. Very old—possibly dating back to the fourth century B.C., and of considerable archaeological value.”

  “What happened to this tablet?”

  “He . . . took it away with him when he left.”

  “And he gave you no indication of where he might be going?”

  The fat man shook his head, winced, and dabbed at his nose again.

  Damn. A dead end.

  “Did he say anything else to you? Anything at all?”

  “No.”

  Unable to think of another useful question, I moved back, leaving the money and the statuette on the table. I nodded to Dawson. We both shouldered our bags, and she approached the fat man with his cane.

  Lihaibi shied away from her until he realized she was simply handing it back. He glanced again at the contents of the table and slowly reached for the cane as if expecting it to be snatched from his grasp at any moment.

  We were almost at the rear door before he spoke again.

  “Your friend—” he began.

  I stopped, unsure if he meant Dawson or Sean.

  “—he said something as he was leaving. Something about having come too far now to turn back. I did not understand, so I paid it little attention. He said it quietly, under his breath. I did not think he was talking to me.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  MOE WAS WAITING FOR US OUTSIDE. HE HAD THE ENGINE RUNNING, not so much playing the getaway driver as keeping the air-con going. He was drumming his hands on top of the steering wheel in time to the music blasting from the stereo. It sounded like the same thing the kids in the internet café had been listening to.

  We strolled across the street, trying to make it look as if we weren’t running away from anything.

  “How the hell did you know all that stuff about the Smithsonian,” Dawson demanded. “And cuneiform writing, and all that shit?”

  “Parker always has National Geographic magazines in the waiting area at the office. I flip through them when I’m bored.”

  We jumped into the back of the Land Cruiser. Moe took off into traffic like a new cop on his first emergency call. Rather than watching the road, he was grinning over his shoulder at the pair of us.

  “All is good, yes?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe not.”

  “She knocked the fat professor flat on his arse,” Dawson explained.

  Moe gave a delighted crow of laughter. I let Dawson deal with his questions, instead twisted in my seat to keep an eye out through the rear screen. Just before we reached the end of the street, I saw a figure dash out of the internet café. It was too far to recognize his face, but from his clothes I guessed it was Lihaibi’s driver. He gesticulated after our disappearing vehicle, waving his arms.

  “So, where to now, boss?” Dawson asked.

  “Anywhere away from here would be a good idea for the moment.”

  “OK. You want I should take you back to the house of my Uncle Yusuf?”

  “Er, no,” I said. “Just drive, Moe, and we’ll work it out.”

  “Will we?” Dawson said quietly. “Because I don’t know about you, but I’m more confused than I was before we went in there.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean . . . Sean went to Lihaibi looking for answers, and I’d say he failed to get them. So, what did he do next . . . ?”

  “Well, he hung onto his bargaining chip—the tablet—so maybe he went looking for another way to contact a buyer.”

  “Or maybe he didn’t trust Lihaibi to do the right thing with it.”

  “Like you have, you mean,” she shot back. “You know that statuette’s going to be up on the black market as soon as Greenpeace rolls the professor back into the water, don’t you? So why did you leave the damn thing with him? We could have used it.”

  “In the meantime we had to carry it, and we’re trying to travel light.” I shook my head. In truth, I wasn’t sure myself. “I’m just looking for Sean, but as to what Sean’s looking for . . . who knows?”

  “Hey, Moe,” Dawson said. “Did you take Mr. Sean to see the professor?”

  Moe rotated in his seat again to face us. “To my great sorrow, no. I took him to the house of my Uncle Yusuf, and then I returned to Basra.”

  “Do you take all your passengers to the house of your Uncle Yusuf?” I asked.

  “Oh no, Miss Charlie,” Moe said, his face serious. “Only those I bring to Karbala.”

  Dawson laughed, but something about the comment niggled at me. “So, your other uncle—the one in Zubayr—he would have known you would take us there?”

  Moe scowled in furious concentration for a moment, still not watching the road. The Land Cruiser drifted to the right until the front wheel bumped the curb. He was forced to saw at the steering and actually look where he was going. Must have been the first time in half a kilometer.

  “Yes, he did!” he said then. “Before we leave, he told me to be sure to show such honored guests the hospitality of the family.”

  I glanced at Dawson. “Are we being set up?” I murmured. “And if so, by who, and for what purpose?”

  “We’re Westerners in Iraq,” she said dryly. “Like they need a reason.”

  We were driving past a park bordered by spindly trees. In the center were wooden swings and a slide. Children played, surrounded by parents, single fathers, mothers chatting in groups. Apart from the modesty of their clothing, we could have been anywhere. Even the patchy khaki-colored grass was reminiscent of England during an unexpected heat wave, with the hosepipe bans in full force.

  Moe kept driving. I began to realize the scale of the city, the contrast between immaculate open plazas, the white stonework dazzling in the sun, intricately decorated minarets, and abandoned construction sites. Rusting rebar poked skyward from the upper stories of buildings that could be finished next month, next year, or never. Paved roads suddenly gave way to dirt, then back again. Moe took it all in his stride.

  And because we were heading in no particular direction, perhaps it made the tail that much easier to spot.

  I nudged Dawson’s arm. “We’ve got company—again.”

  “Oh joy,” she muttered, peering behind us. “The white pickup?”

  “Uh-huh. At the moment, anyway. If I’m right, they’re also using a silver SUV and a black Merc.”

  “Three teams? That doesn’t sound good.”

  “The pickup picked us up first—no pun intended—and the others have been playing tag ever since. If there was more traffic, I probably would never have spotted them.”

  “Locals, do you think?” she asked tightly, and I heard the unspoken question.

  “Not sure. Somehow it feels a bit too . . . slick.”

  Dawson nodded and reached for h
er bag, sitting between us on the rear seat. She slid out the AK we’d bought from Moe’s uncle in Zubayr, checked the magazine was seated, and rolled her injured shoulder. “What do you reckon they’re going to do this time—pull us over or try to blow us up again?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.” Carefully, I retrieved my own weapon and the spare magazine, keeping it low. “You ready for trouble, Moe?”

  “Always, Miss Charlie,” Moe said cheerfully, and before I could stop him he fished out the Uzi from under his seat and waved it in front of us, as if to prove it.

  To the vehicle following, the silhouette of the machine pistol must have been clearly visible through the glass. Dawson yelled at him to put it down.

  I saw the pickup’s front end lift as the driver stamped on the gas. The vehicle leaped forward, closing up fast.

  Moe tried to replicate the move. When he stood on the ancient Land Cruiser’s accelerator pedal, all that happened was the engine note rose to a tortured howl and belched sooty smoke from the exhaust. Still, at least it stopped the pickup’s occupants leaning out of the windows to take a bead on us. I doubt they would have survived their first lungful.

  Instead the driver swerved wide a moment before he would have rammed into us. The nose of the pickup drew level with the rear quarter on my side.

  It was a double-cab model with a rear seat. I caught a flash of black-clad figures inside with covered faces, stubby weapons, and tactical vests, saw the driver shift his grip on the wheel, arms bunching.

  I just had time to mutter, “Shit!” under my breath.

  Then they hit us.

  TWENTY-NINE

  THE GUY DRIVING THE PICKUP WAS A PRO—AS IF I HADN’T WORKED that one out already.

  He sideswiped the back end of the Land Cruiser just behind the rear axle, using the reinforced bull bars wrapped around the front corner of his vehicle to take the brunt of it.

  Having rammed us, the pickup kept coming, sinking its teeth into our haunches like a wolf on a lamb refusing to let go. I caught sight of the driver wrenching at the wheel again as he tried to separate us, ripping off our back bumper in the process as he finally broke free.

  The maneuver launched us into a vicious broadside skid—exactly what it was designed to do. I’d practiced the same move on every offensive driving course I’d ever taken part in. So I knew full well that nine times out of ten, with a civilian behind the wheel, that should have been the end of us.

  What I hadn’t counted on was the fact that Moe must have been driving on desert sand since he was old enough to reach the pedals. Suddenly finding himself skittering sideways clearly held no surprises for him. He wrestled with the wheel, all feet and elbows, calling out prayers and whoops of encouragement to the old Toyota in a voice turned squeaky with adrenaline. Dawson and I were holding on for grim death, unable to take aim even if we’d wanted to.

  Whatever Moe entreated, either his God or his vehicle, it had the desired effect. The elderly Land Cruiser shook off its attacker and came back to hand with a last wallow. We were almost at ninety degrees to the carriageway by this time. A side turn had opened up in front of us and Moe didn’t hesitate, sending us barreling off down it.

  I glanced over my shoulder. The pickup was going too fast to make the turn. It overshot the junction in a cloud of kicked-up dust and stones, already braking hard. We pulled out a marginal lead, which I knew couldn’t possibly last.

  “Where you want we go?” Moe asked over his shoulder.

  “Some place there’ll be plenty of cops or army.”

  Dawson threw me a doubtful look. “For all we know, these guys are cops or army.” And I knew she was remembering that traffic stop in Kuwait.

  I shrugged. The pickup bounded back into view and began rapidly reeling us in again. Now, though, two of the occupants were leaning out of the double cab’s rear windows on either side, assault rifles at the ready. They wore combat black with no insignia.

  I remembered the Russians who’d arranged for my abduction, and what they’d threatened to do if I didn’t get straight on a flight home. Suddenly the word “incapacitate” took on all kinds of unpleasant and painful connotations.

  Moe yelled, “Hold very tight, please!” and threw the Land Cruiser into a sharp left bend. I swear both inside wheels lifted through the turn. This time, however, the pickup was ready for us. If anything, they made the corner more easily than we had and gained another meter.

  The crack of automatic-weapons fire started up behind us. I caught the flare of twin muzzle flash and ducked down even though the thin foam and fabric of the rear seat was unlikely to provide much protection. The glass in the tailgate shattered, showering us with fragments.

  “We don’t have a hope in hell of outrunning them,” Dawson said grimly.

  “Or outgunning them, either. I know.”

  “So, do we stand and fight now . . . or wait until after we’ve crashed?”

  I leaned forward in my seat. “Moe, get as far ahead of them as you can, then turn off, stop, and run for cover before they see you, OK?”

  “But Miss Charlie—”

  “This is not your fight, Moe.”

  “But—”

  “You run, for fuck’s sake, or I’ll shoot you myself.”

  He hunkered over the wheel as if I’d slapped him. I slid back, was almost thrown into Dawson’s lap by the next violent turn. She shoved me roughly onto my own side.

  “You, too,” I told her.

  “What!”

  “Take it as an order if it makes you feel better. Soon as Moe stops, take off and don’t look back. I’ll do what I can to keep them occupied. Get hold of Parker. Tell him . . .”

  I broke off. I had no idea what she should tell him.

  More incoming fire from the pickup strafed across the back of the Land Cruiser. I flinched as one of the tires blew out, the steel and rubber remnants flailing against the underside of the arch. I felt suddenly naked and wished heartily we’d asked Moe’s uncle in Zubayr for body armor as well as guns.

  Keeping tucked in as far as I could to the side of the vehicle, I wedged the barrel of the AK against the leg of the headrest, sighted, and fired a short burst into the front grille of the pickup.

  I saw the driver react to the hit, swerving slightly. For a moment I thought I’d missed anything vital, then I caught the first jet of steam hissing from the front end.

  “Now’s your chance—before they call for backup and the others arrive.”

  For once, neither of them argued with me. The pickup had dropped back. We were in a half-built industrial area of what seemed to be abandoned warehouse projects, the roads between them little more than dirt tracks marked out with fluttering plastic tape tied to rebar stakes in the ground.

  Moe stood on the brakes and the Land Cruiser slewed to a stop. I clung onto the headrest and maintained my sight picture, covering our rear, felt and heard the doors open and the two of them jump down.

  Heard them hesitate, too.

  “Go!” I shouted.

  They didn’t need to be told a second time, and I didn’t watch them leave. I didn’t need to know the direction they’d taken. It was enough to know they were clear.

  I could hear the pickup coming, the engine note harsh as it overheated rapidly, on its last legs. The idea they might sacrifice their dying vehicle in a last-ditch ram raid occurred to me.

  I jumped out into the brutal heat, keeping the gun up into my shoulder as I backed around the front of the Land Cruiser and crouched, making sure to keep my body blocked by the front wheel and shielded by the bulk of the engine. The four-wheel drive had enough ground clearance that I could peer underneath it.

  The pickup limped into view, steam billowing from the busted grille now. It must have been on the verge of seizing. As soon as the driver saw the Land Cruiser, abandoned with the doors thrown wide, he pulled up fast.

  The next thing, rounds were punching into the Land Cruiser—through it in places. I dropped flat, face in the dirt. Above
me, the vehicle lurched and sank as another two tires were blown out. Only the one I was directly behind was still intact.

  When I raised my head fractionally, the four men in the pickup had debussed and moved behind their own vehicle for cover. Two checked the rooflines on either side of the street, while one covered their rear and the driver kept his weapon trained in my direction. I guessed he’d done the shooting, maybe just getting his own back.

  Heart hammering against my breastbone, I stayed down, waiting for them to make their move. I had no desire to make a suicidal last stand until there was no other option. And the longer I kept them guessing, the longer Dawson and Moe had to make their escape without pursuit.

  The driver held up his fist in a “hold” gesture to the others. It took me a moment to work out what he was waiting for. Then, above the thunder of blood in my ears, I heard another engine approaching, something big and powerful, revving hard in low gear.

  Shit!

  I inched forward until I had a clear line under the Land Cruiser. One of the men scoping the rooftops took a step out of cover. I sighted center mass, then remembered the body armor the dead Russian had been wearing. I let the AK’s muzzle lower a fraction and shot him through the fleshy part of his right thigh. He dropped as his leg bucked out from under him, and went down yelling.

  I fired one round only, on the grounds that a wounded man would tie up at least one of his colleagues but the dead could be left to fend for themselves. Besides, I didn’t have ammo to spare.

  One of the others grabbed the shoulder strap of the wounded man’s equipment harness and dragged him back into cover while the forward pair raked the Land Cruiser with rapid fire.

  I was fast running out of viable options. The nearest building was not close enough for me to get to without being shot in the back long before I reached it. The Land Cruiser was disintegrating around me, and the enemy were rapidly encroaching.

  As the assault eased, the big Mercedes that I’d seen tailing us earlier hove into view. It came roaring in closer than the pickup and disgorged another four guys, dressed and armed the same.