The Assassins Part 28

The interviewer stabbed an index finger down onto the table. "Prime Minister al-Lami's coalition includes all minorities. New businesses are opening. Oil profits are growing. The stock market is righting itself. Iraqis are returning home after years abroad. There were pessimists and troublemakers who predicted the current terrorist attacks would stop everything. Obviously, they were wrong. The prime minister is doing a lot of things right."

Tabrizi did not hesitate: "Everything good that he's done is small. There's no sweeping change. Count the potholes in the streets-they're big enough to swallow tires. Dead bodies lie in the parks for days and are discovered by our children. We don't have reliable electricity, gas, phone service, or water. He can't even protect government buildings-today not one but two were bombed. Iraq will never be great again while mortars and RPGs and bombs and automatic weapons kill people and destroy property day after day after day. Do you disagree?"

"Of course not, but-"

In a show of power, Tabrizi faced the camera and spoke pa.s.sionately to viewers: "I promise security ... true security ... to all the people of Iraq. Prime Minister al-Lami has put your lives and your children's lives in danger. Will you be the next to die because of his inadequacies?" There was an audible gasp in the studio for the baldness of his question. "If you want safety, tell your MP to vote for me. As your new prime minister, I'll lead you back into Allah's hands and into a better day worthy of our legendary history."

They left the television studios together, al-Sabah and Tabrizi in their business suits, Zahra between them in her abaya and headdress. The noontime sun reflected like white heat from the gla.s.sy high-rises around them. The trio went to Tabrizi's car.

Without a camera recording him, Tabrizi's expression returned to its usual severity. His face was like glazed concrete. In the center of his forehead was a callus. To al-Sabah, that was what really identified Tabrizi. Westerners might think the callus was a blemish, but to those in the world of Islam, it was a mark of piety. It meant Tabrizi had prayed several times a day, 365 days a year, for most of his life. At every prayer session he had prostrated himself at least twice, touching his forehead not to a rug but to a turba, a rough clay tablet made in the holy city of Najaf, as Shiites had done for centuries. Al-Sabah had seen Tabrizi look in a mirror and touch the callus, then smile quietly to himself.

As they walked, al-Sabah delivered their news: "The Carnivore is on his way here. We have visuals and names for two of his employees. We'll be able to track him through them."

"Good. We can end this at last. It will be a relief. What do you think, Zahra?" Tabrizi asked politely.

Her hands knotted. "We'll kill that b.a.s.t.a.r.d Carnivore."

Tabrizi winced. He did not approve of words like b.a.s.t.a.r.d, especially from a woman.

Zahra was so distracted by her grief she did not seem to notice, but al-Sabah did. He changed the subject: "Your interview was good, Tariq. It will help. We're close to having a majority coalition, but the prime minister is creeping up in numbers, too."

"Tonight, we'll crush him," Tabrizi said with conviction.

Al-Sabah nodded. Tonight's event would shock and terrify the populace, cow the MPs, and prove without any doubt that the current prime minister was inadequate to protect anyone, including himself.

As they reached Tabrizi's armored black limousine, the driver jumped out. He was a beefy specimen with a pistol on his belt. Al-Sabah knew he kept a fully loaded AK-47 on the pa.s.senger seat beside him.

The trunk opened. Inside was a large cardboard box labeled BOOKS. Al-Sabah surveyed the parking lot as the driver leaned over and opened the box flaps. Inside, stacks of greenbacks appeared on the left, and stacks of euros on the right.

Zahra reached inside and touched the cash.

"How much?" al-Sabah asked.

"What you said you needed-ten million dollars." Tabrizi smiled a real smile. His intense pleasure in the money was palpable. He had spent most of his life in the twilight world of international finance, where the big players seldom slept because somewhere around the globe markets and banks were open. When he was finally worth billions of dollars, he had found it too dangerous to continue. Quitting, he left London for Iran but felt lost without his old world, a rich man whose riches did him no good because he could no longer play the high-stakes money games that had made life exciting. He needed a new challenge, something hard, something complicated, something verging on the impossible. When you have all the money in the world, all that is left to want is what you cannot buy.

Then the Americans and Brits invaded Iraq. The invasion was the chance for which Tabrizi had hoped. He moved across the border to Iraq, to Basra, where he had grown up with al-Sabah, to pursue something so priceless it could not be purchased-governing an Islamic nation. He intended to become prime minister.

In some ways, it was like the old days for him-he was gambling again. Ballot boxes could be stuffed, but they might not stay that way. Votes could be bought, but someone else might come along and offer a higher price. He was an MP eleven years, long enough to learn who had profited by working with Saddam, who had collaborated with the CIA and MI6, with Iran or Russia or both, who was most corrupt, who had fomented revolution, and who had led death squads. If he were to become prime minister, he knew what his altruistic goal was: to make Iraq stable and safe and take it back to Allah.

Al-Sabah had been with him through all of it because of three simple facts: Tabrizi had needed someone he could trust, al-Sabah wanted the opportunity to have a public career, and he also wanted the enormous fortune his old friend had promised him. The money would be wired into al-Sabah's Cayman Islands bank account when Tabrizi became prime minister.

Al-Sabah's iPhone vibrated. Seeing it was Jabari, he answered.

"We've made flyers with a photo of Greg and Courtney Roman and a phone number to call to get a reward for finding them," Jabari told him. "Our people are taking copies into all the transportation hubs-airports, bus stations, car rental agencies, taxi servers-and they're staying on hand to watch. The ten-thousand-euro reward gets people's attention."

"Remember," al-Sabah warned, "the Carnivore's stock in trade is deviousness. Don't take anything for granted."

"It'd help if we knew what he looked like," Jabari said.

"No one knows. Just find the Romans, they'll lead you to him."

Al-Sabah relayed Jabari's report to Tabrizi and Zahra.

"Tell me as soon as you learn anything." Tabrizi climbed into his limo. "Good luck, and G.o.d bless."

Tabrizi's limo drove away as al-Sabah and Zahra climbed into their Land Rover. That was when they heard the first explosion quickly followed by a second. Smoke billowed up toward the blue sky. The afternoon bombings had begun.

69.

Aloft over the Middle East Sunlight flooded the corporate jet as it sped on toward Baghdad. Talking about the fact that Seymour had a new ident.i.ty as Siraj al-Sabah, Eva, Judd, Bosa, and Morgan sat facing one another.

"Why do you think Seymour really started the game?" Eva asked.

Bosa uncrossed his legs and stretched. "As al-Sabah, he appears to feel safe from detection in Iraq, but if he wants to travel and work outside the country, then he's going to be a lot more vulnerable. He's got to be worried about us spotting him."

"You mean identifying him the way you did when you saw his walk and other motions on video," Eva said.

"People's bodies always betray them," Bosa explained. "Believably changing one's posture, gait, and gestures takes a lot of training, but none of us can maintain the changes indefinitely just as no one can stay on high alert indefinitely."

"Seymour was always a bossy bloke," Morgan ruminated. "But never stupid. My take is he created the game so we'd kill each other off for him."

Bosa gave a sober nod.

Judd had been listening quietly. "Tucker was worried this situation was a lot bigger than just six a.s.sa.s.sins fighting over pieces of a broken cuneiform tablet. I'm beginning to wonder whether the SIL has a role in it, too. We all know the international picture-Iraq and Iran are primarily Shiite, and together they're a political island surrounded by an ocean of Sunni-dominated countries. Tabrizi is a highly conservative Shiite. In fact, he was one of the Shiites who left Iraq for Iran while Saddam was in power. Now, for the first time, the SIL has a very good chance of winning the office of prime minister and all that comes with it-appointments, patronage, policy, power."

"You think Seymour started the game to protect the SIL," Eva said.

Judd nodded. "Seymour cofounded the SIL, so he's invested in it and probably has political ambitions of some kind. The last thing he or his party needs is for word to get out that it was created by a freelance a.s.sa.s.sin who's murdered hundreds of people for profit."

Holding up a bony finger, Morgan said, "I can see his slogan now-'Vote for me, or I'll erase you.'" He grinned.

Bosa shook his head at the black humor, then he laughed.

"I never saw worse violence in Baghdad than I did over the past month," Judd went on, "and it was all in the buildup to the elections. Some a.s.saults were obviously meant to intimidate Sunnis and keep them out of the political process-for example, jihadists were bombing Sunni polling stations. Other attacks, like the ones on Shiite religious sites, were meant to get the Shiite-dominated security apparatus to crack down harder on the Sunnis. The result was no party won a conclusive majority."

"And the violence is continuing while Tabrizi and the current prime minister fight it out over the winning coalition," Eva said. "If the SIL takes over Iraq's government, Seymour will be in line for any job he wants. Can you imagine him as amba.s.sador to the U.N. and sitting on some kind of human rights committee? G.o.d-awful irony."

They were silent.

"Do you see any way Seymour could've found out we're flying to Baghdad?" Bosa asked Morgan.

"I'd like to believe we'll surprise him," Morgan said soberly, "but optimism where he's concerned is never a good idea."

70.

They were flying at 37,000 feet. Judd gazed down, seeing only a sea of white clouds, the earth invisible beneath. In the cabin, Eva, Bosa, and Morgan were at work on their laptops.

Judd called his friend Bash Badawi in Washington. It was the middle of the night there, but Bash was at work.

"Bridgeman's locked down Catapult," Bash complained. "He's suspicious we're helping you. He's riding Gloria's tail like she's a surfboard. Everything has to go through him until you and Eva are brought in, and that includes all a.s.signments, queries, and information searches. He's got us by the nuts. I can't help you, buddy. If I did, he'd be able to somehow backtrack to where you are."

"Terrific." Judd fought discouragement.

"But I've got some good news," Bash continued. "Tucker's hemorrhaging has stopped, and there are signs he's regaining consciousness. For the first time, doctors are sounding somewhat optimistic."

Smiling, Judd said good-bye and told Eva about Tucker.

As she listened, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes. "Thank G.o.d." But then she sighed and pointed at the e-mail displayed on the laptop screen in front of her. "I didn't hear back from my cuneiform expert, so I e-mailed her a.s.sistant. He says she's in Death Valley investigating pictographs and won't be back until tomorrow afternoon. As a personal favor, he's going to try to find someone else to get started on the cuneiform right away, but we shouldn't expect much. As he says, some cuneiform is more difficult to translate than others."

The tap-tap of keyboards being worked on filled the cabin.

Crossing his arms, Judd thought about the situation in Iraq. Langley always had players in the field there, and right now they would be focused on the country's politics. Iraq was a critical player in the Persian Gulf, and the region was an area of enormous national interest to the United States. The problem was, Prime Minister al-Lami's coalition was fragmented and only erratically able to control the ministries, the military, and the security forces. The government's logistical and planning abilities were limited, too, making it incapable of any serious national defense. Still, it was in the best interests of the United States that al-Lami be reelected instead of a Shiite extremist like Tabrizi. Al-Lami's quasi-democratic regime might be short on stability and long on thuggery, and it might be unduly interfered with by the Iranians, but at least it formed the basis of a state that could evolve in a better direction.

The CIA station in Baghdad would have in-depth dossiers on everyone who was connected to the election, including Tabrizi's would-be kingmaker, al-Sabah. The problem was, by now the station also had Bridgeman's orders to capture Eva and him. There was no way he could get around that.

He cursed under his breath.

Checking the time, he saw it was almost noon in Baghdad. He dialed Hilu Wahid. Hilu owned a tour guide business-his male relatives did most of the guiding, and his wife ran the office. A top translator, he also worked for the U.S. Emba.s.sy, where he sometimes acted as unofficial go-between with Iraqi politicians, businesspeople, tribal leaders, and the media.

Hilu was connected, a fixer who moved in many circles.

After five rings, a brisk voice answered. "A-salaamu aleek.u.m."

"Masa'ah alkhier, Hilu. It's your old friend Judd Ryder."

Hilu was instantly alert. "Didn't I put you on a plane back to Washington a couple of days ago, or am I hallucinating?"

"I couldn't stay away. I'll be in Baghdad in a couple of hours."

"I'd say welcome back, but I can hear in your voice you want something. You are a scamp, Judd. Hold on." There was a pause. "All right, I've got my reading gla.s.ses and a pad of paper. Talk."

"Tell me about Siraj al-Sabah."

Judd heard a sudden intake of breath.

"That dog," Hilu growled. "He has a mountain of ambition but a black heart. He thinks he can get anything by spreading money like manure. Al-Sabah and Tabrizi sometimes act as if Iran is somehow a better, purer country than Iraq because its ayatollahs say religion and government are the same. 'Islam is politics'-that's what they say." He muttered something under his breath. "Our Shiite imams are different. They say religion shouldn't bother with day-to-day government. There are other differences, too. Iranians speak Farsi, and we speak Arabic. They're Persians, and we're Arabs. In the old days, Iraqi fathers wouldn't give their daughters in marriage to Persians-it was considered shameful. We are not Iran, and I don't want to be. Iran wants to swallow us whole, but we're not going to let them do it!" Hilu's hard, angry breathing sounded in Judd's ear. "Is that enough background for you?"

"That's helpful, but what about al-Sabah's family? Where does he come from? Where did he get so much money?"

"Okay, okay. There's someone you need to meet when you get here. He works for al-Sabah and knows him personally. He'll give you an earful. He wants to leave al-Sabah's organization, but there are only two ways he says you can get out-you die in the field, or he has you killed."

"Good. Can you arrange it?"

"Of course. He's my cousin."

They said good-bye, and Judd slid his cell phone into his pocket. He had been so focused that he had not noticed someone had pulled the shades down on the jet's windows. Morgan was dozing in his chair, his gaunt head lying to the side, his beak of a nose in grand profile against the seat's pale leather back. Bosa's and Eva's eyes were closed, and they appeared to be sleeping, too. In the c.o.c.kpit, Jack and George took a tray of sandwiches from Doug and exchanged some banter.

As Doug left, they slammed the door shut.

"Fly boys." Doug shook his head. "I'm going to lie down, too. Don't bother me unless there's blood on the floor."

As Doug headed aft, all of them opened their eyes and peered at Judd.

"What did your Iraqi friend say?" Eva asked.

Judd repeated the information from Hilu.

A couple of minutes later, Judd's cell phone buzzed. He answered quickly. "Yes?"

"It's Hilu, my friend. All is arranged. My cousin's name is Mahmoud Issa." He related the address. "He'll meet you at four P.M. I'll try to be there, too. He says to be careful. Very careful."

71.

Baghdad, Iraq Judd peered down at Baghdad International Airport. Ten miles west of the city, it was an island of concrete and steel in the dun-colored desert. As the jet circled toward landing, he could see a couple of jets taxiing, a few helicopters waiting, and four planes parked at the terminal.

As he looked around, a black cloud erupted in northeast Baghdad, then another billowed up in the downtown area. More bombings.

"Iraq's a dangerous place these days," Eva commented.

"Worse than ever," he told her. "Businesspeople and tourists are reluctant to come here. Now there are big empty s.p.a.ces at the airport again where nothing is going on."

"It used to be an international hub," Morgan remembered. "Flying into Baghdad wasn't like flying into Frankfurt, but it was pretty d.a.m.n impressive."

Bosa said nothing, just shook his head.

It was almost three o'clock. Judd and Bosa had a little more than an hour to get to the meeting with Mahmoud Issa. The rendezvous was in downtown Baghdad, and if the traffic were bad, they would not make it in time. Eva and Morgan were going to SIL headquarters to watch for al-Sabah. It, too, was in downtown Baghdad.

As the jet descended, Judd spotted two black SUVs parked together next to a chain-link fence skirting the airport's private section. Jack had called ahead and rented two Ford Explorer SUVs, both armored of course and both black, because black was a favored color in Baghdad to warn of power. The rental agency had taped keys under the driver's side back fenders.