The Assassins (30 page)

“I thought you assassins 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?”

“God knows why he’s made so much trouble,” Bosa said tiredly. “Seymour’s a piece of work. I want to surprise the bastard, but first we’ve got to find him.” He tapped his iPad. “I went on Google Earth to check out the building associated 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 button. 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, analyses, 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 hell 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 assassins 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 damned,” Bosa swore. “I never would’ve guessed it. He’s got that slight hesitation before he comes off the balls 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 snobs. Again, bingo. We’ve found Seymour, bloody bastard.”

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 caf
é
.

“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 pigdick’s gone into national politics. He has what he always wanted—the limelight. It’s a small limelight, but it’s a hell 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 classified 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 aleekum,”
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 assured 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.”

Each of the four men led a different Shiite militia cell, handling discipline and religious training and the problem of finding financing. Iran’s ruling ayatollahs donated $5 million a month, but it was not enough to keep them in grenade launchers, mortars, ammo, stipends for martyrs’ families, and food, housing, travel, and recruitment. Until Seymour had come along, they had supplemented their income with street crime, which had taken so much of their time that they had been forced to reduce the number of missions they could carry off.

“
Inshallah.
Where do you get such wealth?” Abdul Ahab asked.

The room grew tense. To them, Seymour was the key to a fortune, and a fortune was key to their being able to continue their militant crusade.

“Who’s backing you?” demanded the man known as Antarah.

Seymour swung his H&K casually. They saw the motion.

“Come, Fatima.” As she floated toward the door, Seymour backed to it. Despite an urge to tell all of them to go fuck themselves, he kept his voice calm as he repeated an old Mesopotamian saying: “When you ride a good horse, do you care in which country it was born? Of course not. Kill me, and your money stops.”

Their shoulders sagged.

But then Abdul Ahab rallied. “Don’t think just because you’re the one with the money you have our loyalty. That belongs to Iran!”

“We wouldn’t have it any other way,” Seymour said.

He turned, and Fatima and he walked out into Baghdad, a city that would soon be theirs.

63

The Tigris flowed through Iraq like arterial blood. Tonight the river was calm and silvery. Wood boats anchored in the shallows tapped against each other, making a hollow sound. Seymour cradled his H&K carbine and stood in the shadows of an abandoned boathouse near Abu Nawas Street, keeping watch on the river. The earthen banks were a jungle of reeds and untended trees, perfect cover for tonight.

Hearing a rustle, he stepped back against the boathouse, his dark clothes and
kaffiyeh
blending into the shadow. He peered left, toward the street, which was above him here. His wife, Zahra, was hurrying down the slope, her
abaya
flowing. She covered her blue eyes with dark contact lenses, vanished under black cloth, and went out to do business with insurgents and terrorists under the
nom de guerre
Fatima.

“Any problems?” Zahra cradled a customized Ruger 9-mm semiautomatic pistol against her body. It was a blocky weapon, but she said she liked its ruggedness, strength, and reliability.

“None. Where are we with your arrangements?”

As they continued to wait by the river, Zahra told him about the Sunni leader of a network of sectarian death squads who was going to complete missions tomorrow. It had cost another $2 million.

Shiites and Sunnis were like Catholics and Protestants in that they shared many common beliefs, such as that Muhammad was God’s messenger and the Koran was divine. The split began in 632 when Muhammad died. Sunnis believed Muhammad’s successor should be elected. They won the argument, and Muhammad’s close friend and advisor Abu Bakr became the first caliph. But others thought someone in Muhammad’s family, in this case his cousin and son-in-law, Ali bin Abu Talib, should have succeeded. His followers were called Shiites. The wounds caused by the dispute deepened and continued to erupt into violence for the next 1,400 years.

The growl of a boat’s motor drifted in from the quiet river, and a battered yacht came into view. Some fifty feet long, it had been “freed” during the 2003 looting by two fishermen: Khalif and his son, Abbas. They lived on it, and they made their living with it, including the occasional dinner cruise. Tonight’s cruise had ended just before one
A.M.,
as planned. Now the yacht was returning home.