The Assassins Part 25

"You don't have the same surname, do you?" Judd asked Doug.

"No. My mother loved him but she wouldn't marry him," Doug told him. "Now that I'm older, I understand why. You'll see what I mean. Right now, he's exhausted. He's had a long day. Actually, several long days. His sports car was blown up in Paris. The kid he sent to bring it to him was the one who died. Dad didn't bother to correct the coroner about the victim. The whole thing made him pretty mad. Dad liked that car a lot."

"Christ, he's the sixth a.s.sa.s.sin." Judd stared at the sleeping man. "Burleigh Morgan is alive."

61.

Judd and Eva quickly returned to the cabin, where Bosa was leaning forward, working on his iPad. They dropped into their seats across from him.

"So you and Morgan have been collaborating all along," Judd said.

Bosa looked up. "Morgan got in touch with me after the attempt on his life in Paris. We decided it was smart to let him stay dead. He went to Marrakech, rented a Mercedes, and started following Krot. When he called me with what he'd discovered, I relayed it to you. Morgan was necessary, and you were necessary. Morgan wasn't going to hurt you, and he wasn't able to handle the situation by himself. Christ, he's closing in on eighty years old. When he got to the plane, he said you were on your way back and he'd fill me in later. He crashed, and I haven't seen him since. There was no point in telling you about him until I had to."

"Watch it, sonny boy." Grasping seat backs, Morgan swayed down the airplane's aisle. In motion, his wire-thin body seemed supple, not the bag of bones it had appeared in repose. His face was drawn and weary, but his eyes glinted. "I can still b.l.o.o.d.y well beat the c.r.a.p out of you, Alex." He fell into the seat next to him and peered across the aisle at Judd and Eva. "Alex is an uncivil bloke. Should've introduced us. Glad to meet you both. You realize you're in love, don't you?"

Judd recoiled, feeling a strange sensation in his stomach.

Eva looked away.

Morgan chuckled and peered up at his son, who had followed him with blankets. "Dougie, I need some food."

Doug opened the blanket over Morgan's lap. "Sure, Pops. Right away." He handed another blanket to Bosa, who spread it on his legs.

"Don't call me Pops," Morgan grumbled.

"No problem, Gramps."

Muttering under his breath, Morgan focused on arranging his blanket.

Doug gestured down at him. "Now you see why my mother wouldn't marry him."

"She was an idiot," Morgan announced. "But great legs and b.o.o.bs."

Doug sighed. "He never learned any manners. But then, he started out as a bullet man in London's old East End. A few years later he shot his boss to death at Ronan Point and knifed his boss's boss in an alley near what's now South Quay Station."

"I got ambitious," Morgan explained.

Doug continued: "He offered to do occasional work for the remaining boys if they'd let him make his own way in the world. He was twenty-five. They said get the f.u.c.king b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l out of here, we'll call you when we need you-and he went independent."

Morgan nodded. "I never looked back. And I d.a.m.n well don't have any plans to retire, either. I'm more trouble than a war horse. I'm the b.l.o.o.d.y war."

With a roll of his eyes, Doug returned to the galley.

Eva glared at Morgan. "Why did you kill Katia? You're a pro. You could've made a different decision."

Morgan shot her an appraising look. "Krot was b.l.o.o.d.y d.a.m.n dangerous. I wasn't going to get a second chance. So I took the chance I had. It's over. Done with. Can't change it. Walk away from it, Eva, or it'll weaken your ability to do what you have to do in the future."

Morgan had just admitted accountability, but not responsibility. Eva leaned back in her seat, seeming lost in thought.

Before Morgan could respond, Jack's voice came over the loudspeakers: "Cairo International ahead, folks."

Cairo was an unscheduled stop. "Are we scrubbing our trail?" Judd asked.

"Right," Bosa confirmed. "We'll switch planes so our flight plan to Baghdad shows we came from Cairo, not Marrakech."

"Are you worried that if Seymour is in Baghdad, he's somehow found out about us?" Judd wondered.

"What I worry about is getting lazy," Bosa said, "and dead."

The trijet circled over the metropolis. The Nile River was a black ribbon, glossy, splitting the sparkling city in two. Landing, they rolled to a stop beside a Gulfstream IV business jet. They transferred their things aboard, choosing the same seating arrangements, with Bosa and Morgan on one side of the central aisle, and Judd and Eva on the other. Reading the maintenance reports, Jack and George walked around the craft, tugging, prodding, doing a thorough inspection.

After more than an hour on the ground, they took off again. There were no clouds, and the stars shone brightly. Judd turned away from the window. An idea had been percolating in his mind for some time. He sat forward, clasping his hands between his knees, and studied Bosa and Morgan. "Considering the lengths you six a.s.sa.s.sins go to maintain operational secrecy, who could possibly have found out enough about your work to compile an encyclopedia of your contract kills? And who besides you knew about the cuneiform tablet? The only answer I can see is one of you must be the e-mail's author. It's one of you who's blackmailing everyone else to play this sordid game."

Morgan and Bosa exchanged a look.

"You tell them, Alex." Morgan's bony face was grim.

Bosa gave a brief nod. "Morgan and I have talked about this, of course. As far as we know, Seymour didn't contact any of us. The Padre, Eichel, and Krot were looking for him. Morgan and I have been looking for him. The blackmailer tried to blow up Morgan, so Morgan isn't the blackmailer. I know I'm not the blackmailer, and Morgan knows it, too, because I could've wiped him many times, including when he came limping back to the plane tonight. From the beginning, he and I figured whoever sent the e-mail starting the game could be one of us. Now that it's down to Morgan, Seymour, and me, it sure looks like it has to be Seymour. There's a logical reason he didn't contact any of us-he didn't need to. We've been reporting in to him every twelve hours, we just didn't realize it was him. Morgan and I think he's been waiting until there's only one of us left. When he gets that report, he'll make up some lie that he-Seymour-is dead, meet the 'winner,' and ambush him. That way Seymour gets the cuneiform tablet, keeps the Catalog, and has the satisfaction of knowing the rest of us are no longer taking up s.p.a.ce."

"I thought you a.s.sa.s.sins made a lot of money," Eva said. "Your plane is worth what, Alex-forty million? Is Seymour so broke he needs the twelve-million-dollar tablet?"

"G.o.d knows why he's made so much trouble," Bosa said tiredly. "Seymour's a piece of work. I want to surprise the b.a.s.t.a.r.d, but first we've got to find him." He tapped his iPad. "I went on Google Earth to check out the building a.s.sociated with the last phone call from Baghdad to Katia. It's clear why the SIL moved-all that's left is a big hole in the ground. Then I found a historical photo, and it showed a five-story apartment building. The SIL could've had a storefront on the first floor, and Grigori Levinchev was renting a place upstairs. Maybe Seymour was, too. So I searched for the building's owner. Of course, there are almost no records of Baghdad real estate online, so I went to my next question-where did the SIL move to? The answer is Saadun Street near Firdos Square and the Palestine Hotel."

Grabbing a remote control from his tray, he aimed it aft and tapped a b.u.t.ton. The skin of the wall next to the galley door slid down, revealing a 48-inch LED television screen.

Bosa tapped his keyboard. "I'm linking my iPad to the TV screen. Let's see what we can find out about the SIL political party."

Google returned more than 100,000 references. There were links about its founding by Tariq Tabrizi and Siraj al-Sabah, its members, its ideology, interviews, a.n.a.lyses, programs for the poor, cultural events, and critiques by other politicians, academics, and foreigners.

When they reached the tenth page, Morgan finished his sandwich and put the plate aside. "Go back to the beginning," he told Bosa.

Bosa returned to the opening page.

Morgan leaned forward. "Can you make those pictures bigger?"

Three thumbnail photos showed people while a fourth displayed a stately white stone building fronted by Corinthian columns.

"Which photo do you want me to enlarge?" Bosa asked.

"I don't care a gopher's snout about the building. I want to see the people."

Without comment, Bosa put his cursor on the first photo and clicked. Immediately it enlarged. According to the caption, a group of thirty angry SIL MPs were storming out of a parliamentary session after they had lost a vote. In the lead was Tariq Tabrizi, who was running for prime minister now. In the next photo, Tabrizi stood at a podium making a speech. The last photo showed two men shaking hands. One was Tabrizi, who was congratulating the second man, a history professor, for winning the annual SIL leadership prize for his daily column in The Iraqi Sword. Besides a bronze plaque, he received a prize of 100,000.

Judd whistled. "That's one h.e.l.l of a lot of money for an organization in a poor country like Iraq."

"Go through the pictures again," Morgan said. "I'm not sure what I wanted to see."

Bosa obliged.

"There's something about Tabrizi," Morgan said. "Can't say what. Is there any way to see him move?"

"Probably." Bosa clicked on VIDEOS at the top of the page.

A column of photos with descriptive text appeared. Bosa scrolled down the page. He opened one, and they watched a video of Tabrizi standing in parliament, shaking his fist. In others, he was cheering at a soccer game and greeting people at an outdoor market.

"Well?" Bosa asked.

"Keep going," Morgan ordered.

The next video showed a clear Baghdad day. Tabrizi embraced a Shiite cleric wearing a black turban then strolled with him down a sidewalk in front of the same white building from earlier. The men held hands, which Muslim men did with close male friends. A woman in a long black abaya, most of her face covered, stood at the curb watching. She was small, a good head shorter than Tabrizi and the cleric. A bearded man in a business suit walked into view and joined her. He was smoking a cigar, obviously enjoying it. As they stood there, the cleric climbed into the rear of a black limousine. They waved, Tabrizi waved, and the limo rolled away.

"Holy mother of Jesus, Alex, did you see what I saw?" Morgan asked, excited.

"Tabrizi?" Eva asked. "What is it?"

"I didn't see anything special," Judd admitted.

Neither of the a.s.sa.s.sins answered. The video continued to play: The would-be prime minister, Tabrizi, turned to the bearded man and the woman in the abaya. He said something, and all three walked back toward the camera. Tabrizi laughed at the camera. The bearded man laughed at the camera and waved his cigar. And then it was over.

"I'll be d.a.m.ned," Bosa swore. "I never would've guessed it. He's got that slight hesitation before he comes off the b.a.l.l.s of his feet. He's not bothering to hide his natural walk. He's decided he's safe enough in Iraq not to always be on high alert."

"Yes," Morgan agreed, "and it's also the way he swings his left arm. It's a little crooked compared to his right one. And see how much he likes his cigar? Just like you, Alex. You two are cigar sn.o.bs. Again, bingo. We've found Seymour, b.l.o.o.d.y b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

Eva's voice rose. "Tabrizi-the presidential candidate?"

"No, no." Bosa shook his head. "It's the other one. The bigger man-the one with the beard. He's Seymour. I wonder what name he's living under." He clicked back through several still photos until he came to an unposed shot of six men drinking tea in a cafe.

"That's the bloke," Morgan said immediately.

The man he indicated had the same square face, short gray beard, trimmed gray mustache, and blockhouse body as the unnamed man in the video with Tabrizi and the cleric.

"According to the caption, his name is Siraj al-Sabah," Eva said. "Anyone know anything about him?"

"We ran into his name earlier when I was researching the SIL," Bosa remembered. "Tabrizi and al-Sabah founded the SIL."

Morgan gave a cold chuckle. "Who would've thought Seymour would be hiding out in Iraq. But then, a war-torn country that the world wants to forget is always a good place to lose yourself. And the pigd.i.c.k's gone into national politics. He has what he always wanted-the limelight. It's a small limelight, but it's a h.e.l.l of a lot bigger than any of the rest of us in our business ever gets."

Bosa nodded grimly. "Now we know. Siraj al-Sabah is Seymour."

62.

Baghdad, Iraq It was past midnight in Sadr City, home to more than two million Iraqis. The moon shone down brightly as Seymour drove onto Umreidi Street, notorious for its black market. Everything was for sale here, from alcohol to weapons, from pharmaceuticals to human organs. The street was quiet; most illicit activity happened inside the ramshackle mud-and-brick buildings.

As he parked, Seymour heard automatic gunfire crackle across the Tigris River from a wealthier section of the city. Violence roamed Baghdad's streets and alleys again. The mortuary cla.s.sified victims by how they died-the beheaded were Shias killed by Sunnis; those whose brains had been power-drilled were Sunnis murdered by Shias. So many corpses washed up on riverbanks that people were afraid to eat the fish.

All of this was on Seymour's mind. After decades of wandering the globe, he had been back home in Iraq a dozen years. In the beginning, he had kept to Old Baghdad, where he could see vestiges of the capital city that once was, the richest city in all the world, the Baghdad of Mongols at the gates and of caliphs in their harems. He wandered the dusty streets with their picturesque sand-colored buildings, their overhanging balconies and oriel windows with woven screens of carved wood. He drank the sweet cinnamon-flavored tea and listened to the laughter of coppersmiths pounding out their wares. And now he had risen to the heart of this ancient country's tense political situation.

Leaving his car, he carried his Heckler & Koch 416 carbine and a nondescript suitcase heavy with cash. Scanning alertly, he moved off.

Despite his bulk, Seymour walked quickly and surely. He wore loose jeans, a long shirt and coat, and a traditional kaffiyeh, a checked cotton scarf, covering all of his head except for his eyes.

As he approached the house he needed, the door opened.

"Ahlaan." Welcome. Fatima stood in the doorway, her body hidden in a long black abaya, her head covered by a black niqaab scarf arranged so that only her dark eyes showed.

"A-salaamu aleek.u.m," Seymour greeted her.

Her eyes smiled, and his heart pounded a little faster.

She retreated to the area that was the kitchen-a propane-powered two-burner stove and a wood shelf holding bowls and pots.

Four men in dark jeans and shirts sat on stools around a long wood table in the claustrophobic room illuminated by a single oil lamp. They, too, hid their faces behind kaffiyehs. In the underworld of Iraqi militias, it was safest to be anonymous, even to one's benefactors. An open laptop sat on the table before each, and Kalashnikovs leaned against the table within easy reach. All looked first at Seymour's H&K then at his suitcase.

"Our money is here at last." The one who spoke used the name Abdul Ahab, which meant Servant of the One. A former structural engineer, he specialized in military tactics.

"Let's see it." The second speaker called himself Ma'thur, the name of the first sword the Prophet owned.

But Seymour looked over their heads to the black-swathed Fatima, the name his wife used when undercover. "You've checked the plans?"

Again she nodded. "They're good." She listed the places in Baghdad and the rest of the cities in Iraq that would be involved. She'd had extensive KGB training in operations.

"We're set to go this morning," Abdul Ahab a.s.sured him.

But again Seymour consulted Fatima. "Are you satisfied?"

"I am."

With that, Seymour set the suitcase on the table. The four men leaned forward, watching. Seymour spun the rotors of the combination lock with one hand, while he kept his H&K ready with the other. When he heard the faint click, he pushed the latches with his thumb. The lid flipped up. Tidy stacks of greenbacks appeared.

He turned the suitcase so they could see. "Two million U.S. dollars," he told them. "As agreed."

They stared. There was a moment of silent appreciation.

Then Abdul Ahab pulled the suitcase to him and began dividing the cash. "Our expenses are large. You will deliver the rest tomorrow night." It was a statement, not a question.

"Do your jobs, and you'll have the money."