The Aleppo Code (The Jerusalem Prophecies)

by Terry Brennan

  “Mike, you and Leo and your team should stay here and set up a shoot on the lion. And keep an eye on the equipment,” Annie responded, surveying the site and the location of the sun. “The rest of us will take a walk and start counting distance. We’ve got to clear where we think the Ishtar Gate is located and measure from there.”

  “Hey, Annie. Take Steve and Fred with you. Just in case.”

  “C’mon, Mike, we’re just going for a walk to look around. We’ll be back in a few minutes. Joe, how long is your stride?”

  “A shade short of three feet, last time I checked.”

  “Okay, it’s going to be less than a mile. Keep track of distance the best you can. You get near two thousand steps, let us know. Everybody grab your pack. Don’t go anywhere in the desert without your pack—without water, without your gear.” She walked over to Tom, rested on her haunches, and stored the two cameras and the contents of her safari jacket in her camera bag. “I won’t be needing this stuff but, Tom, could you carry this viewfinder for me?” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Keep an eye out. There are more people wandering around than I expected. You can use that thing to look around … watch our backs … and it won’t look suspicious.” Then she was back on her feet.

  “Latiffa, can you go with us?”

  Naouri looked around her, as if expecting a sudden, unwelcome visit. “I can walk with you to show you the street. After that, I must return to Baghdad, or I will be missed.”

  “Okay. Let’s go.”

  30

  5:43 p.m., Babylon

  Naouri had returned to her car for the trip back to Baghdad, leaving the Bohannons, Rodriguez, and Rizzo on the ruined streets. But even without Naouri, they could tell when they reached the city wall. Originally twenty-five feet thick and over seventy feet high, the wreckage of the inner wall was still discernable. Bohannon stood in the middle of a long stretch of missing wall, like a rough-surfaced four-lane highway running south. He could see the re-created Ishtar Gate in the distance, much smaller than the hundred-foot original, but still beautiful as the blue-glazed bricks glowed in the late afternoon light.

  “Wow, this is beautiful, even if it is only a scale model,” he said. Annie and Joe were on the other side of the wall, Joe getting ready to pace off the distance to what they hoped would be the culmination of the Dorabella message. Rizzo was by Tom’s side, using the viewfinder—like a small telescope—to get a closer look at the Ishtar Gate.

  “Saddam may have been a madman,” said Rizzo, “but he wasn’t crazy. He sure knew how to get things—

  “Yo. Who’s that?” Rizzo had the viewfinder up to his eye, scanning the distance. “We’ve got company.”

  Tom could see them in the distance. A couple of SUVs had pulled up next to the Ishtar Gate. It only took a moment for them to turn and head directly north.

  “They’re coming fast,” said Rizzo. “Let’s vamoose!”

  Tom and Rizzo scrambled over the rubble of the ruined wall. Annie and Joe were already ahead of them, running down the street. They cut left through a doorway.

  “Come quickly. This way.”

  Without thinking, Tom reached for Rizzo.

  “I can run, you dunce.” Rizzo was breathing heavy, and his legs were pumping like a runaway locomotive, his pack slapping against his back, but he was keeping up. “Watch out!”

  Tom glanced up just in time to avoid running into a low arch, but his injured right shoulder caromed off the opening. Before he could respond to the pain, two hands grabbed his shirt and pulled him through.

  “This way.”

  Joe and Annie had turned right on the far side of the arch and ducked under a low opening to the interior space of an ancient room. There was no roof, and the ruined walls were irregular in height, but it was enough to hide them for the moment and no SUV would be able to follow them through the small openings in the walls.

  They stood close together, listening, trying to watch in all directions at once as light began to fade from the sky and twilight gathered in the corners of the ruined buildings.

  “Bad guys?” whispered Joe.

  “No. It was a Mr. Softee truck.” Rizzo had his hands on his knees, sucking in deep gulps of air. “What do we do?”

  “Can’t stay here,” said Joe.

  “They may be looking for us,” said Annie, “but they don’t know where we are, and they don’t know where we’re going. Joe, how far have we come? Any idea?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve lost count.”

  “We’re not going back?” asked Rizzo.

  Tom joined the others in looking over at Annie. In spite of the circumstances, he was proud of their tacit acknowledgment of Annie as leader.

  “Okay. Look, whoever they are,” said Annie, “they’re not here to help us. That means we’ve been discovered. Somebody knows we’re here—Prophet’s Guard, Muslim Brotherhood, who cares. And that means our time is short. This may be it—our one chance. I don’t know. But I don’t think we give it up just yet. Let’s keep going, try to stay inside the rooms. At least stay away from the street. And let’s see how far we can get. Maybe we can find ‘Daniel’s face’ before they find us.”

  The four exchanged glances and an all-for-one, one-for-all feeling welled up in Tom’s heart. They were in this together. No one wanted to quit. But one thing had to change. Tom allowed his pack to slip off his left shoulder. He reached up with his left hand and removed the sling from around his neck. Sparks darted down his right arm as he stretched it out and put strain on his damaged shoulder.

  “Tom!” Annie whispered.

  “I’ll get it fixed when we get home,” he said, glancing in Annie’s direction. “Right now I need two arms. I can handle the pain.” He tossed the sling into the dust. “Let’s go.”

  Whalen cast one more glance to the east, where Annie and the team had disappeared into the streets of Babylon. The sun was slipping deeper into the west. Their light would soon be gone. Atkins and Vordenberg were at his side, the two NYPD anti-terrorism vets who were his right- and left-hand men. Smart, resourceful, they were hired by NG for their experience with sound devices—bugging apartments and warehouses was an art form—they were taught lighting, and they provided oft-needed muscle.

  A British accent crackled on the radio. “We’ve got some visitors, chaps. Two sets. One coming to you. The other apparently looking for our mates.”

  Whalen glanced over at Vordenberg. “Pack it up, Steve. We’re moving. Fast.”

  Fred Atkins was at Whalen’s side. “The civilians.”

  “Yeah, I know. But we’re too exposed … we can’t get caught here. Steve and Leo can drive these two Rovers, and you and I will try to find Bohannon. We’ll meet them on the far side of the tower’s foundation”—he glanced at his watch—“in thirty minutes.”

  Whalen toggled the radio. “James, wait for us at the rally point.”

  “Roger, that.”

  Annie led the group between two crumbled buildings and into a narrow alley. Walking quick-step, not running.

  “Quiet,” whispered Annie. They came to a break in the alley, another street cutting across it. She peeked around the corner. Cruising slowly down Procession Street, just passing the street that intersected their alley, was one of the gray SUVs. “They’re looking for us.”

  Whalen fitted the night-vision goggles above the brim of his hat, slung the pack between his shoulder blades, and picked up the Swiss-made SIG Sauer, .30-caliber, short-barrel 751 semiautomatic rifle, set for three-round bursts. He stuffed a half-dozen extra twenty-round magazines into his battle vest.

  “Ready.” Atkins came up to his side, equally equipped.

  Whalen stepped between the two Rovers, where Matkins and Vordenberg were getting the last of the gear back into the vehicles. “Steve, you and Leo take the Rovers to the rally point. James is headed there now. Take different routes and try to avoid our uninvited guests. We will see you in thirty minutes. If we’re not there in thirty, well … stay together. We’ll c
ome to you.”

  “See you in thirty,” said Vordenberg. “And Whale, don’t get lost. You still owe me ten bucks.”

  Atkins and Whalen were running east as the Rovers drove into the gathering dark.

  “I’ve been running so much lately I should enter a marathon,” muttered Rizzo, his legs pumping as he tried to keep up with the three people in front of him. Don’t fall behind … don’t be a liability.

  He was definitely at a disadvantage. They were hustling along a narrow alley, the partially destroyed mud-brick walls of differing heights. The others could probably venture a glance when the wall was low, but all the walls were over Rizzo’s head and he plunged on with no idea what was happening around him.

  “Looks like we’re moving roughly parallel to Procession Street.” Annie’s voice was strained, breathless. Whether from exertion or anxiety, Rizzo couldn’t tell. “Joe, any idea how far we’ve come?”

  Rizzo ran into Rodriguez as he jolted to a stop behind the other three. “Hey!”

  “Quiet!” hissed Rodriguez. “I don’t know. I’ve been trying to figure it out as we ran—how long a stride, how many strides. I can’t say for sure, but I think we’re close. We need to risk getting up to Procession Street pretty soon.”

  Perspiration began rolling down Rizzo’s back. His shiver was involuntary. “Let me go. It’s getting dark. I’ll be harder to see.”

  “Not in that shirt,” said Rodriguez.

  “We’re all going … through the rooms,” said Annie. “C’mon.”

  Still shaken by the threats from his master, Gamal Muhammad had pushed his Toyota to the breaking point on his fevered drive from Baghdad. He slowed his speed to navigate the long, looping curve around Saddam’s palace—but not enough. The road was covered with sand and gravel, except for tire tracks where repeated use kept a path clear. In the turn, Gamal’s Toyota drifted out of the track cleared by other cars. The Toyota lost its grip and the back end began driving as if it had a mind of its own.

  When Gamal pressed on the brake pedal, the car looped around completely at least twice before leaving the road. Still spinning, it was airborne. But not for long. The right rear dropped into a ditch, and the Toyota whipped around, slamming the driver’s side door into a mound of brown gravel. Brute force stopped the car’s motion, a shock that Gamal felt throughout his body.

  Steam was enveloping the front of the car’s body, and pain was taking up residence in Gamal’s back. But he remained conscious. And determined. His right hand felt around on the car’s seat and found the radio.

  “I’m at the Palace curve.” His voice sounded like the grit still swirling inside his car. “Crashed. Come get me.”

  Vordenberg was on foreign territory, and it was getting dark, which gave his pursuer a distinct advantage, but there was nothing else to do. Vordenberg engaged the red, night-vision lights attached to the front bumper so he could at least see some distance ahead. But now he was an illuminated target.

  He turned east to avoid a crumbling, brick wall. He knew the yawning chasm that was the Tower’s foundation was south … a bit west of the old city. Leonard, Matkins, and the rest would be there: reinforcements. But first he had to lose the vehicle that had started following him as soon as he left the plaza surrounding the Lion of Babylon.

  He glanced into the rearview mirror once more, expecting to see the gray SUV gaining ground. The SUV’s lights bounced crazily as Vordenberg led the chase over ruined walls and through un-reclaimed neighborhoods of ancient Babylon. Suddenly it veered off to the right.

  Vordenberg put his hand on the machine pistol in his lap and cast a sideways glance to his right. But the SUV was gone. He could see its lights bouncing in the distance.

  Strange … but thanks.

  He throttled down quickly and doused the lights. It would take longer, but he would find his way to the Tower’s foundation in the dark. And hopefully not bring any unwanted guests with him.

  The large, bald Iraqi man—Achmed—stood beside the second SUV and looked across the roof at his partner. “It’s Gamal. He’s crashed his car. Ismail’s gone to get him. It’s up to us.”

  Son of the tobacco shop owner, Achmed bent over and reached into the SUV. He stood back up with an automatic pistol in one hand and an encrypted, multiband radio in the other. He stuffed the radio into his shirt pocket. “Keep circling on the main streets. I’ll go through the alleys, hopefully get behind them. If you see them, call.”

  Whalen led Atkins, double time, north, away from the Ishtar Gate and Procession Street, perpendicular to the direction taken by Bohannon’s crew. He planned to loop east, hoping to flank and get in front of both Bohannon and the SUVs that were looking for them. His gamble was no one would be looking for the cavalry coming from the east. He hoped.

  “Go ahead.”

  Annie nodded toward the opening. They crouched inside a small room with a narrow, empty doorway that opened onto a wide, open space. Just beyond was Procession Street. Tom put his hand on his wife’s arm, gave it a little squeeze, and scrambled to the edge of the door.

  At well-spaced intervals, diffused, indirect light came from behind the walls of Procession Street, keeping the street in twilight, not penetrating far beyond. Staying in the shadows inside the door, Tom had a limited view to the east or west along Procession Street, but he could make out where they were. He had reviewed several photos on the Internet. They were slightly east of Nebuchadnezzar’s palace, which was essentially just a huge, flat, empty square with massive ruined walls on three sides. Bohannon leaned into the wall to look farther west and saw something he didn’t expect.

  He twisted his head and examined the inside of the room he occupied. In a far corner was the remnant of stairs that once led to the roof. Hunched over, he trotted to the stairs, climbed halfway, and poked his head up like a periscope breaking the waves. He looked both ways on Procession Street, validating his observation, and then joined the rest at the bottom of the stairs.

  “There are wide openings in the walls along Procession Street, alternating on either side. The openings are shallow, horseshoe-shaped. They look like amphitheaters, with seating levels around the circumference of the arch, as if they were made like stadiums, for watching something—perhaps the parade of triumphant armies returning to the city. But listen. The directions told us to go seven stadia, and we thought it was distance. What if they meant go to the seventh stadium? The seventh area to watch the parade?”

  Tom watched a smile rise on Annie’s face.

  “But,” asked Rizzo, “how do we know which one is the seventh?”

  Now it was Tom’s turn to smile. “Because, if I counted correctly, the seventh stadium is almost next door, directly across from Nebuchadnezzar’s palace.”

  Achmed’s eyes had long ago adjusted to the darkness. Now he saw through every shadow, waiting for any shadow to move. He was a deadly shot. Even in the dark.

  Move. He scanned the alley, looked around the corner of a wall. Come. Move.

  “Out in the street, back through the alleys, or over the wall?” asked Joe.

  “It’s too dangerous in the street.”

  Rizzo took a look up at the ragged top edge of the ruined wall. “You get on top of that wall, and you’re probably visible to anybody in the city.”

  Annie nodded. “Tom, how far to the entrance?”

  “Maybe twenty, thirty feet.”

  “Too far.”

  “Look,” said Tom, “down the other end, where Saddam rebuilt the walls along the street, they are really high. But down this end they’re still only eight, ten feet high, depending where you stand. Maybe we can find a way in from behind the stadium.”

  “Okay … we go back through the rooms or find an alley,” said Annie. “We need an alternative. The street is too dangerous.”

  Atkins was at his shoulder, but looking back the way they had come. “How far do you think we should go?” he whispered.

  “Maybe another half mile, then double back.”

&
nbsp; “Moon’s gonna be up soon.”

  “Yeah … we don’t have much time.”

  One more glance in each direction and Whalen left the shadow of the ruined wall, ran across the open street toward the location of Nebuchadnezzar’s palace.

  In the alley behind Procession Street, Rodriguez stepped off twenty-five feet. The old wall here was uneven in height, a little more than eight feet at its lowest point, but still too high for Joe to reach on his own. He knew Bohannon couldn’t very well give him a boost one-handed, so Joe motioned Rizzo over. Together—their fingers interlocked—Bohannon and Rizzo formed a foothold. Rodriguez stepped high and placed his boot in their hands. One, two, three. He pushed off with his grounded foot at the same time the two men lifted their hands and propelled him to the top of the wall.

  Pressing himself against the uneven bricks as best he could, Rodriguez pulled his legs up so he could lay flat along the top of the wall and check out the other side. The amphitheater looked to be about six or seven feet deep from its apex to the edge of Procession Street. Three levels of seating surface, one higher than the next, hugged the circumference of the semi-circle. But there was an opening at the very center of the arch, creating a section of seating on either side. The opening was just below Joe.

  Joe pivoted on his elbows and lowered his body about three feet to the top level of seating. Crouching, watching his step, he moved down the other levels and stood on the ground between the two sections of amphitheater seats in the stadium. Conscious of every sound, he edged toward the only opening, on Procession Street. Nothing stirred. Joe backed away from Procession Street, turned to help the others over the wall, and stood face-to-face with Daniel.