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.”
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.”
29
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.
“Let me orient you a little,” she said, facing the group. “Although this is the northern edge of what now remains of the city, in the time of Nebuchadnezzar, Babylon stretched farther north about twenty kilometers to the beginning of the first wall, which was one meter thick and surrounded the entire city, from river bank to river bank, in a long, sweeping arc north to south. About one hundred meters inside the crescent of the first wall was the second wall, even larger and thicker than the first. It was in the second wall that the original Ishtar Gate was constructed, one of eight gates providing access to the city of Babylon. What now represents the Ishtar Gate, Saddam’s smaller and less imposing replica, stands over there”—she pointed—“to the west.
“Inside the second wall was the majority of the ancient city, athough even during Nebuchadnezzar’s reign, the city spilled over onto the far, western bank of the Euphrates, forcing the construction of a number of bridges.
“Lucky for us, and critical considering your directions, Nebuchadnezzar built his palace, his gardens, near the Ishtar Gate, at the northern rim of the city. The gate and Procession Street were the great triumphal entrances for the king and his armies when they returned from battle with plunder and slaves. So it makes sense that he would not want to cross the entire city to get home after a long campaign.
“Over there,” said Naouri, pointing east, “is the tacky Babylon Square that Saddam imagined as the new center of the city: an empty, dusty building that was intended to be a museum, a vacant gift shop, abandoned restaurants, all of it being reclaimed by the desert. But we’re going this way.”
Naouri rounded the crumbling wall and entered the plaza. In the center, its weathered head pointing south, its rump pointing toward Saddam’s much vilified palace on a hill overlooking the ruins, was the gray granite Lion of Babylon, more than twenty-five hundred years old and still distinct and impressive. It stood just under two meters high to the top of its head and about three meters long at the base of the pedestal. The lion was standing, its head up, looking at the great city. Flat on the ground, lying the length of the statue, under the lion’s belly, was the figure of what appeared to be the arms and legs of a man.
“The lion was the symbol of Babylon,” said Naouri. “It was the form taken by the god Marduk, one of the images for the goddess Ishtar. The body represents all of Babylon’s enemies, vanquished and defeated.”
“I hope that doesn’t represent us,” said Rizzo. “I don’t feel like being any lion burger.”
Racing down the highway in spite of the lowering sun shining in his eyes, Gamal Muhammad had one hand on the steering wheel and the other wrapped around his radio. The connection was terrible, and he struggled to get himself understood.
“No, no. They are already in Babylon. I don’t know how they got there. Naouri must have brought them in the back way. It doesn’t matter. Go find them. Find out what they are doing. Don’t let them leave, and watch every step they take. I’m on my way.”
Resting her back against the snout of the Lion of Babylon, with a compass in her right hand, Annie turned toward the south. “From the Lion, through the Ishtar Gate, seven stadia … Latiffa, how can we follow these directions without …”
“Well first, what kind of stadia are you measuring?”
“What?”
“There are many. The Greek stadion was 176 meters, the Babylonian was 196 meters, and the Egyptian 209. According to Herodotus, a stade was equal to six hundred feet of your measure. Which one? It could make a difference of more than two hundred meters over seven stadia.”
Annie closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She was frustrated with herself for not knowing this in advance.
“Split the difference: 185 meters—about forty-two hundred feet. But how do we measure it off without being seen?”
Naouri pointed to the east. “Through those ruins, between the walls. We need to avoid Procession Street. If there are tourists, if there are watching eyes, that’s wh
ere they will be, walking down to see the Ishtar Gate and Nebuchadnezzar’s palace. But there is another street on the other side of those ruins that runs parallel to Procession Street. You can measure the distance while you are on that street and then find your way to Procession Street.”
A pair of black SUVs dulled to a tawny gray by the desert drove slowly through the sparsely occupied parking lot on the western fringe of Babylon, rounded the curve in front of Saddam’s deserted palace, and approached Hussein’s scaled-down version of the Ishtar Gate. Two large Iraqi men rode in each vehicle, their heads shaved clean, Russian-made automatic weapons tucked between their thighs and the doors. Their eyes showed no life but never stopped moving.
“How do you want to set up the photo teams?” asked Whalen.
Tom almost didn’t recognize Annie … not the Annie he knew. She was wearing snug blue jeans, a short-sleeve khaki shirt, and a sleeveless safari jacket, its pockets bulging with her “stuff”: extra lenses, viewfinders, even a small, collapsible tripod. Two .25-millimeter Nikon digital cameras hung from straps around her neck and a wide-brimmed Tilly Air-Flo was on her head, a blond ponytail dropping down her back. The smile on her face made her look twenty years younger.
It had been an easy decision, asking Annie to take control of the group once they arrived in Babylon. Theoretically, and on the official Iraqi documents, this was her photo shoot. She was the chief photographer, the one with all the experience. It was natural for her to lead, to help this motley group look like a true NG photo crew. Tom was fascinated with the transformation in his wife. Surprised and proud at the same time. Annie slid into leadership as easily as she slid into her old slippers at home.
The Aleppo Code (The Jerusalem Prophecies) Page 26