Dorothy Mcintosh - The Witch of Babylon

He reached into the case and lifted out a large black velvet bag. Loosening the braided gold drawstring, he gently lifted out a sculpted object. The copper head of Victory from Hatra.

I was stunned momentarily by the natural beauty of her face. Her eyes were intact, unlike the Mask of Warka, whose missing eyes made her resemble a blind sibyl. Victory’s eyes, the irises crafted from obsidian and the corneas from pearly-white shell, gave her a startling lifelike appearance.

“Like I could ever get that into America.”

“When the job’s done we’ll fly you from here to Belgrade. From there we’ll drive you to Zurich. A dealer there will be happy to take it off your hands.”

“I know who you are. You can’t afford to let me go free.” Ward avoided my gaze and let out a manufactured laugh.

“We’re not interested in either you or Laurel. You’re not the center of our universe. Just get us what we want.”

This was another one of his cooked-up stories. There may as well have been a hook twisted into my lip with Ward jerking the other end of the line, the money and promise of freedom made simply to secure my cooperation. And I didn’t believe his tale about not wanting to storm the house. Once I’d confirmed Tomas’s presence the raid would start. The Victory sculpture was hotter than a blowtorch and would play a starring role. The blame for the carnage would be laid at my doorstep, the disgraced American art dealer. There’d be nothing I could do about it because I’d be dead too. His offer was made purely to ensure I’d play the role he’d created for me.

Ward gave a little jump, showing how wound up he was. I realized his phone must have gone off, vibrating on his hip. He fished it out and started talking then turned around and stood in the doorway, keeping his voice low. His form filled most of the door so the two guards couldn’t see a thing. I scooped up the roll of bills, slid a couple into my pocket, and hastily put it back in exactly the same spot. It was agonizing to have to leave the passport and Visa card.

When he shut his phone off and turned back he was all business. He took the case and its contents off the bed and clipped my wrist back onto the rail. “I won’t return until late and we’re going to make an early start.”

“I haven’t agreed to anything yet.”

“You don’t have a choice.” He mumbled something to the guards and banged the door on his way out.

I felt for the Scotch I’d put on the tray with the dirty plate from the meal. I closed my hand around the glass tumbler and brought it to my lips. A volley of shots exploded again, so loud they could have been aimed right at our window. I dropped my glass, spilling the liquor all over my shirt. I lay there reeking of booze, swamped in misery.

I must have drifted off because I woke with a start in the middle of the night. My arm ached from being locked onto the bedrail in an unnatural position and from all the punishment over the last couple of days. The light was still on in the guards’ room, casting a dim glow into mine. Over the blaring movie and their snores I thought I could hear a rustling at the foot of my bed. I sat up and peered toward the source of the noise.

What was this—a hallucination? Some kind of strange insect crawled on the bedcover. It had a body as big as a hunting knife, the same unearthly, pale coloring of those underwater creatures that never see light. At its head, reddish mandibles opened like the beak on a squid. The thing was huge. I kicked at it and yelled. It scurried over to the wall. I grabbed for the empty glass and threw it. The tumbler splintered when it hit the wall, but the thing escaped into the dark crevice between the bed and the wall. Then it reappeared even closer. It raised its forelegs, waving them in the air as if trying to hone in on the vibrations from its enemy.

“What the hell’s going on?” The figure of the guard materialized in the doorway, blocking out all the light. Now I couldn’t see the thing.

“There’s some kind of scorpion or something on the bed. Kill it. For God’s sake hurry up.”

He flicked on the light and I could see it was now only a foot away from my bare arm. “Shit. How did that get in here?” he said. “It’s a camel spider. I’m not touching it. They hide in the sand and then spring up. Use their mouth to rip into the camel’s soft belly. That’s how they get their name. The bite’s really poisonous; it’s worse than a scorpion’s.”

In full panic mode now I yanked my body away as far as possible off the bed, but my arm was still firmly locked onto the rail. I could feel the feathery touch of forelegs beginning to probe my bare skin.

“Throw me the key then, you ass.”

The second guard elbowed his way into the room, took one look, and doubled over laughing. “You should see yourself, Madison. You look ready to piss your pants.” He grabbed the dinner tray, dumped the empty dishes on the floor, and batted the spider. It flipped over on its back, legs flailing uselessly in the air. He brought the tray down hard and I heard a crunch. With the coverlet he wrapped the carcass up.

I shifted back onto the bed. “You jerks let that thing in here on purpose.”

“Shove it where the sun don’t shine and think again before you treat us like servants then,” the second guard said. “We needed a laugh. It’s boring watching movies all the time. Arm hurt?” The cuff bracelet had scraped the skin around my wrist raw when I’d pulled away. The two of them disappeared back into their den. I lay awake for the rest of the night wary of any more of their ugly stunts.

Thirty-one

Saturday, August 10, 2003, 9 A.M.

Next morning we walked out of the hotel into white-hot sunshine. Even the palms appeared to wilt in the corrosive heat. Patrolling soldiers gave us the once-over and looked away. As for our little group, tension all around—Ward’s temper was particularly short once again. He kept snapping at his cohorts.

My chariot awaited. A battered orange taxi, a Datsun that had to be mid-eighties. Amazing the driver could even get it going.

Eris led the way, driving a sedan with Ward beside her, the taxi wedged in between that and the white Humvee bringing up the rear, commandeered by the two mercenaries.

Ward had been right when he’d said the address was close. Once we entered the residential zone it took about ten minutes before we pulled to a stop at an intersection. The homes in the area were palatial—at least that’s what I imagined because a good many of them were concealed behind walled compounds. Many had tough-looking armed guards posted outside. A lot of heavy movers and shakers apparently lived here. But even in this area, one of the wealthiest sections of Baghdad, I could see bombed-out hulks. I remembered hearing on the news that two homes full of people had been obliterated after a nearby restaurant was mistakenly pinpointed as a location for Saddam Hussein.

Ward got out and leaned in my window. “The taxi will pull up in front of the house; it’s about half a block up. The Humvee will stay here and my car will stop farther up the street. The rest is up to you.”

My destination was hidden behind a substantial wall of basalt blocks. I stood in front of the gate, an elaborate metalwork grille. Through it I could see a cobblestone courtyard and a Mercedes parked in front of a two-story home. The car was silver and therefore not the one we’d used in Turkey. Young trees and vines grew lushly over the top of the wall. I pushed the button fixed into a brass plate and prayed for a miracle.