Chapter 1
BAGHDAD, IRAQ, 2003
CARINA MECHADI WAS INCANDESCENT with rage. The young Italian woman threw off sparks like a Roman candle as she surveyed the rubble that littered the administrative offices of the IraqiNationalMuseum. Cabinets had been overturned. Files were scattered as if they’d been caught up in a whirlwind. Desks and chairs had been smashed to splinters. The vindictiveness of the destruction was appalling.
Carina unleashed a withering outburst that dissected the parentage, sexual orientation, and prowess of the vandals who had wreaked such senseless havoc.
The wave of blue language washed over the young U.S. Marine corporal who had been hovering protectively nearby cradling an M4 carbine in his arms. The only two Italian words the marine knew were pepperoni and pizza. He didn’t need a lexicon to tell him that he’d witnessed a display of razor-edged invective worthy of a longshoreman with a sore back.
The muscular language was all the more amazing considering its source. Carina was a foot shorter than the marine. The battle gear the military people had insisted she wear made the slender woman appear even smaller. She looked like a turtle too small for its shell in the borrowed flak jacket. The desert-camouflage uniform was meant for a small man. The helmet that concealed her long sable hair sat so low it almost hid her cornflower blue eyes.
Carina noticed the marine’s astonished grin. She blushed with embarrassment and brought her tirade to a halt. “Sorry about that.”
“No problem, ma’am,” the corporal said. “You ever want to be a drill instructor, the Marine Corps would be glad to have you.”
The heat faded from her dusky face. Full lips that seemed better suited for seduction than for swearing widened in a broad smile that revealed perfect white teeth. With the fire in her words extinguished, her voice was low and cool. Speaking with a slight accent, she said, “Thank you for the offer, Corporal O’Leary.” She glanced at the rubble at her feet. “As you can see, I’m quite passionate when it comes to this sort of thing.”
“Don’t blame you for being pissed—” The marine’s cheeks flushed and he glanced away. “Excuse me, I mean for being mad, ma’am. Hell of a mess.”
Saddam Hussein’s elite Republican Guard had set up a defensive position in the eleven-acre museum complex in the heart of Baghdad on the western bank of the Tigris. The Iraqi troops had run for their lives in the face of the American advance, leaving the museum unguarded for thirty-six hours. Hundreds of plunderers had rampaged through the complex until they were chased out by the senior staff.
The Republican Guards had shed their uniforms and burned piles of identity cards in their hurry to return to civilian life. In a last gasp of defiance, someone had scrawled DEATH TO ALL AMERICANS on a courtyard wall.
“We’ve seen all we need to see here,” Carina said with a grimace.
With Corporal O’Leary trailing a few paces behind, she plodded out of the administrative offices. Her leaden-footed gait was only partly the fault of the army boots on her feet. She was weighed down by a feeling of dread at what she would find, or not find, in the public gallery, where the museum’s prize holdings were exhibited in more than five hundred display cases.
The walk down the long central corridor only served to heighten her fears. A number of sarcophagi had been cracked open and statues decapitated.
Carina set foot in the first gallery and the air involuntaril
y escaped from her lungs. She wandered from room to room as if in a daze. Every case looked as if it had been vacuumed clean.
She entered a gallery that had held Babylonian artifacts. A portly, middle-aged man was bent over a smashed cabinet. Standing next to him was a young Iraqi, who raised his AK-47 when they entered.
The marine brought the carbine to his shoulder.
The heavyset man looked up and stared through thick lenses at the marine. There was disdain rather than fear in his eyes. His glance shifted to Carina and his face lit up in a fourteen-karat smile.
“My dear Miss Mechadi,” he said with undisguised warmth.
“Hello, Dr. Nasir. Glad to see that you’re all right.” Carina turned to the marine. “Corporal, this is Mohammed Jassim Nasir. He’s senior curator here at the museum.”
The marine lowered his weapon. After a pause to show that he had not been intimidated by the American, the Iraqi did the same with his gun. They continued to eye each other warily.
Nasir came over to clasp Carina’s hands in his. “You shouldn’t have come so soon. It is still dangerous.”
“You are here, professor.”
“Of course. This institution has been my lifeblood.”
“I understand completely,” Carina said. “But the area around the museum is secure.” She nodded toward her marine escort. “Besides, Corporal O’Leary is keeping close watch on me.”
Nasir’s brow clouded over. “I hope this gentleman is a better guard than his friends were. If not for my brave colleagues the disaster would have been total.”
Carina understood Nasir’s anger. The American troops arrived four days after the museum’s curators had told the commanders about the looting. Carina had tried desperately to have them move in sooner. She had waved the UNESCO identification card hanging around her neck under the noses of the American officers only to be told that the situation was too fluid and dangerous.
Carina saw no use arguing over who was to blame. The damage had already been done. “I’ve talked to the Americans,” she said. “They said there would have been a bloody battle if they came in earlier.”