and imprison them all.
The embassy's front door swung open to show a big man with a snub nose, thick gray hair, and shaggy eyebrows that were lowered over intelligent brown eyes.
He fit the description Peter had given Jon. "Jerzy Domalewski?"
"The same. You must be Peter's friend." The door swung open wider, and the diplomat's gaze took in the tall American with one savvy glance. In his midforties, he wore a brown suit that sagged as if it had gone too long between cleanings. He spoke in Polish-accented English. "Come in. No point in making ourselves into bigger targets than we already are." He closed the door behind Jon and led him across a marble foyer into a large office. "You are sure no one followed you?" He liked the level look in the stranger's dark blue eyes and the sense of physical power he radiated. He would need both attributes in perilous Baghdad.
Instantly Smith caught the whiff of fear. "MI6 knows what it's doing. I won't bore you with the circuitous route they used to get me into the country."
"Good. Do not tell me." Domalewski nodded as he closed the office door. "There are secrets no one should know. Not even me." He gave a small, wry smile. "Take a chair. You must be weary. That one with the arms is comfortable. Still has its springs." As Jon sat, the diplomat continued on to the window where he cracked open the shutter and stared outside at the morning. "We must be so careful."
Jon crossed his legs. Domalewski was correct: He was tired. But he also felt a pounding need to get on with his investigation. Sophia's beautiful face and the agony of her death haunted him.
Three days ago, he had arrived at London's Heathrow airport in the early hours of the morning dressed in new civilian clothes he had bought in San Francisco. It was the beginning of a long, grueling journey. At Heathrow, an MI6 agent sneaked him into a military ambulance that had whisked him to some RAF base in East Anglia. From there he had been flown to a desert airstrip in Saudi Arabia and picked up by a nameless and taciturn British SAS corporal dressed in long Bedouin robes who spoke perfect Arabic.
"Put these on." He tossed Jon robes identical to his. "We're going to take advantage of a little-known prewar agreement." It turned out he was talking about the Iraqi-Saudi Arabian Neutral Zone, which the two nations still maintained so their nomadic Bedouins could continue their historic trade routes.
In the sweltering robes, Jon and the corporal were handed from Bedouin camp to Bedouin camp by the Iraqi underground until on the outskirts of Baghdad the corporal surprised him with fake identity papers. Iraqi dinars, Western clothing, and a badge and armband for a U.N. worker from Belize. Jon's cover name was Mark Bonnet.
He had shaken his head, amazed at MI6's thoroughness. "You've been holding out."
"Hell, no," the corporal said indignantly. "Didn't know whether you'd make it. No point wasting good ID on a bloody corpse." He pumped Jon's hand in farewell. "If you ever see that arse Peter Howell again, tell him he owes us all a whopper."
Now Jon sat in the former American embassy, dressed like a typical U.N. worker in his brown cotton slacks, short-sleeved shirt, zippered jacket, and the all-important U.N. armband and badge. He had money and additional identification in his pocket.
"Do not take our concern personally," Domalewski was saying as he continued to study the street. "You cannot blame us for not being especially enthusiastic about helping you."
"Of course. But be assured--- this may be the most crucial risk you've ever taken."
Domalewski nodded his shaggy head. "That was in the message from Peter. He also gave me a list of doctors and hospitals you wished to visit." The Pole turned from the window, his thick eyebrows raised. Again he considered the American. His old friend Peter Howell had said this man was a medical doctor. But could he handle himself if violence struck? It was true that from his high-planed face to his broad shoulders and trim waist, he looked more like a sniper than a healer. Domalewski considered himself an apt judge of people, and from everything he could see about this undercover American, perhaps Peter had been right.
Jon asked, "You've arranged meetings?"
"Of course. I will drive myself to some. Others you must handle yourself." The diplomat's voice became a warning: "But remember your U.N. credentials will be useless