The Assassins (31 page)

Seymour cracked open the boathouse’s door and spoke into the darkness. “It’s here.”

“Yes, sir,” a voice answered from inside.

Zahra had passed him and was walking down through the reeds to the shore. Seymour left the door open and hurried after her. There was a flurry on the yacht as Khalif and Abbas dropped anchor among the other boats in the makeshift harbor.

“A-salaamu aleekum!”
Seymour called. “We’d like to rent your yacht tonight!”

“Come back tomorrow!” Khalif yelled.

But his son was lowering a dinghy into the water. “He’s too tired. I’m not.”

A notoriously hard worker, the son scrambled down the rope ladder and rowed toward them. In his forties, he had a dark, deeply rutted face that told of a lifetime working in Baghdad’s harsh sun. When the dinghy slid into the reeds, Seymour was waiting, his adrenaline pumping. He slammed his carbine’s butt up under the son’s chin then crashed it back into his throat, crushing his windpipe. The man collapsed.

“Abbas!” the father yelled through the darkness. “What’s happening to you?”

“He’s sick,” Seymour shouted back. “We’ll bring him to you!”

Zahra and Seymour climbed into the dinghy. Once she was settled, he rowed off, the dying man lying at his feet.

The father remained at the yacht’s rail, the moon illuminating his worried expression. As they closed in, Zahra aimed the Ruger. Seymour looked over his shoulder to watch what would happen.

She fired once. A dark spot appeared on the bridge of the man’s nose. He groaned, exhaled, and fell back onto the deck.

“Fine shot,” Seymour told her.

“Shukraan,”
she said modestly. But her eyes were shining.

They tied the dinghy to the yacht and climbed the ladder. Seymour checked the old man—dead. The varnish on the mahogany was peeling, and the seat cushions were faded. But the wheelhouse was large, and there would be plenty of room down below for storage. Equally important was the configuration of the deck. It was perfect—flat and spacious.

Seymour and Zahra stood at the rail together, holding hands as they watched a large rowboat cruise toward them. All that showed were the heads of three men and the silhouette of a tall tarped mound that would be parts for three special mortars.

“Let’s check down below.” She headed for the wheelhouse.

Seymour’s iPhone vibrated. “I’ve got a call.”

She stopped. “I’ll wait.”

There was no name on the ID screen. Frowning, he touched the
TALK
key but said nothing, waiting in the silence.

A woman finally spoke. “You are one suspicious fox, Seymour. Is me, Liza Kosciuch.”

“It’s been a while, Liza. What can I do for you?” He had known Liza since the eighties, when they had trained together in a PLO camp in Sudan.

“Is something I’m doing for you. Our old colleague Krot arrived with a lady friend tonight. Then a man and woman broke in to talk to Krot. They said their names were Greg and Courtney Roman and they were tracking Krot for the Carnivore. Krot gave them some special rocks—cuneiform rocks—and told them he was quitting the business. So he and his lady drove out of the garage. This is important … no one but us knew he was here.
No one.
I have excellent security, but even that did not matter. A motorcyclist ran up and shot Krot. The bullets went through Krot’s head and into the lady’s head. She died, too. The motorcyclist was wearing one of those all-over helmets that are darkened. No way anyone could see his face. Who do you guess it was?”

“Sounds like the Carnivore.”

“Who else? He took off on his motorcycle. Greg and Courtney Roman chased him, but he got away. So they came back and bought the audio recording of what Krot and his lady had said in their room. I kept a copy. They’re looking for you, Seymour.”

He felt a jolt of excitement. “How much do you want for the recording?”

“Is free. I will give you video of Courtney and Greg Roman, too, since they are probably headed for Baghdad. I do this for Krot. I am hoping you will get that shit Carnivore. Give me your e-mail address.”

He relayed it. “Is that all your news?”

“No. Krot’s lady was Katia Levinchev.”

Seymour’s breath left his body. He willed himself to remain on his feet. He looked for Zahra. She was still waiting at the wheelhouse. She stepped toward him. Her expression told him she knew something was wrong.

He thanked Liza and said good-bye.

Zahra stared worriedly up at him. “What is it?”

“The Carnivore went to Marrakech to find Krot. He found him and shot him to death.”

“Good. That’s good. One less of them for us to deal with. What’s wrong with that?”

“The problem is, Krot was having an affair with Katia.”

Her hand went to her mouth. “How did he … she—”

Seymour grabbed her and pulled her to him, holding her tightly as he told her what had happened. “Katia died from the same bullets that got Krot. The Carnivore killed her.”

The howl was a wild animal’s cry of pain. He could feel it wrack her body. Her head thrown back, she howled again, at the stars, at life, at her mistakes. At irreplaceable loss.

“Shh, Zahra. Shh, shh.” He kissed her cheeks and tasted the salt of her tears. “It’ll be all right. We’ll get the Carnivore. You’ll feel better then. One way or another,” he vowed, “the Carnivore will die.”

64

The first hint of morning light rose in a pale yellow ribbon above the Tigris River. Across the city’s rooftops from the highest minarets pealed the calls to early morning prayer: “Come to salvation. Prayer is better than sleep.…” Machine gun fire a block away disturbed the quiet, but the noise of gunfire was so common it was not worth noting.

Standing at the boathouse, Siraj al-Sabah watched two of his men ferry the last load out to the yacht swaying at anchor. The third man was working onboard. Soon the three would have everything packed out of sight below. The yacht was customarily anchored here, would remain here during the day, and tomorrow night his men would take it out for one of its cruises. Everything was going according to plan, except for Katia’s death. That had been unexpected. Al-Sabah kept pushing it from his mind. Zahra was in their car, crying.

In the reeds, two bulbul birds sang sweetly to each other. As a child in Basra, al-Sabah had listened with great longing to their beautiful songs, an emotion that had stayed with him. For some, it was important to know who they were. For others, it was beside the point. And for the rest, the question had not occurred to them. Al-Sabah had never been interested in finding out. There was a small dark place in his mind that told him he did not want to know.

But now his life was changing in a way he had only been able to dream. When you grew up without a father or a mother, barefoot, no money, you learned that staying hidden was survival. That was the way he had lived all of his adult years, too—until now. At last he had come out of the shadows into a public life where he was admired, respected, envied. There was no way he was giving up that.

When the rowboat returned, his three men—Jalal, Hassan, and Mahmoud—jumped out and dragged it up onto the muddy shore. Each wore a pistol on his belt. They were in their early forties, seasoned and strong. They joined him.

“Everything’s aboard and stored, sir,” Jalal reported.

Jalal was a compact man built for speed but not endurance. Al-Sabah had allowed him to join his special guards on the recommendation of Jalal’s uncle, who had died a few days ago in a firefight. Jalal had been there, too, but had walked away uninjured.

Al-Sabah nodded and turned to the second man. “Tell me what you are thinking, Hassan.” It was a question he often asked, and they knew how to answer it.

“Because of you, I’m working for Allah and the future of Iraq,” Hassan responded. “What’s better than that?”

“Yes,” al-Sabah said. “And what about you, Mahmoud?”

“Thanks to Allah, yes, I agree.”

“Good. And what do you say, Jalal?”

There was a second of hesitation, of guilt. Al-Sabah saw it.

“I agree with Hassan and Mahmoud.” A ray of morning light coming through the trees beamed on Jalal’s face, the cheek muscles that were starting to droop, the mouth that had grown thin, the eyes that squinted from a lifetime in the sun. Baghdad’s climate was not kind to the poor.

“That’s not what I’ve been told, Jalal,” al-Sabah said sternly. “I hear you’ve been talking to Prime Minister al-Lami’s people.”

Jalal stepped back. His eyebrows rose. “No!”

Al-Sabah followed, pulling Jalal’s pistol from his belt. He pointed it at him. “You are courting Cala.” Her father worked for one of Prime Minister al-Lami’s top aides.

Jalal swallowed hard and stared at the gun. “I … I have the money to marry now,” he begged. “Please—”

“Didn’t it occur to you that the reason her father allows you to visit is because he knows you’ll eventually tell him everything he wants to learn about us so you can continue to see her and hope he’ll let her marry you?”

Jalal gave a violent shake of his head. “That’s not true. I come from a good family!”

“You’re a fool, a damn dangerous one. What should we do with him?” al-Sabah asked his two other men.

Hassan and Mahmoud were stiff with tension. Al-Sabah’s rules were strict. Everyone knew what happened when someone broke them.

Before they could answer, al-Sabah turned on Jalal again. “What should we do with you, Jalal?”

A tear slid down Jalal’s cheek. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.

“Did you confess to your aunt that you killed your uncle because he was going to tell me what you were doing?”

“I didn’t kill him! I’d never do that!” Jalal shook his head hard.

Mahmoud cleared his throat. “Jalal didn’t have anything to do with his death,” he said nervously.

Al-Sabah gave Mahmoud a withering stare. No one contradicted him, and Mahmoud knew that. Was Mahmoud getting restless, too?

Looking away, Mahmoud seemed to shrink.

Al-Sabah turned again on Jalal. “What should we do with you, traitor?”

“No, no! I didn’t do it!” Jalal bolted, his feet making a hollow, sucking sound as he scrambled through the muck.

“Take care of him,” al-Sabah ordered.

Hassan’s eyes were dull with disbelief that Jalal could have been disloyal. Mahmoud’s expression was grim. They aimed and fired. Two shots rang out. Jalal’s arms flew up and his back arched. He took three more steps, started to turn, and collapsed. The noisy gunshots seemed to shock the waterfront. There was a sudden silence. Not even the bulbul birds sang.

As the men cleaned up, al-Sabah climbed the hill to where his car was parked next to the road. Getting in, he saw that Zahra had taken off her headdress, and her face was red and puffy from crying. She was sunk deep into her seat, looking limp and weak.

“How are you, dear?” He patted her hand. It was an inadequate gesture, but it was the best he could do.

Clasping a wad of tissues, she rested her head against his shoulder and sobbed, murmuring memories of Katia as a baby, her baby.

Al-Sabah drove them away from the river. He phoned Jabari and warned him about Mahmoud. “Mahmoud tried to save Jalal. In the end, he did the right thing and helped to execute him.”

“I’ll have him watched.” Jabari Juader was his number two, a completely reliable man whose knowledge of Baghdad was as intimate as the veins in his body.

Ending the conversation, al-Sabah paused the car at a red light. He stroked Zahra’s arm. As much as he wanted to, there was nothing he could do to repair her heartbreak.

“Can you stand to listen to Katia and Krot’s conversation?” he asked.

She sat up, her face hardening. “Yes, of course. We need to know everything.” She blew her nose.

He handed his iPhone to her. It was open to the attachment Liza Kosciuch had e-mailed. Zahra started the recording and put it on speakerphone. From Rachmaninoff’s concerto to Katia’s and Krot’s warm statements of love, they listened carefully.

“Katia sounded so happy,” Zahra whispered. “At least we have that.”

He nodded. “The Carnivore is probably on his way here now. I forwarded the video Liza sent to Jabari with instructions to distribute it to our people and send out teams to cover the airport and train and bus stations. If Greg and Courtney Roman come, we’ll find them.”

“We won’t know what the Carnivore looks like,” she said worriedly.

“There are other ways to recognize him. The problem is, I’m the only one who can do it.” Al-Sabah parked the car at the curb.

Starting the video on the iPhone, she leaned close to him. He inhaled her fresh lemon scent. They watched Mr. and Mrs. Roman—the tall, athletic man in the Hawaiian shirt, and the woman with the red hair, dressed in dark slacks and blouse—run across the street toward Liza’s garage, pause against the wall, then duck under the lowering garage door.

“They’re well armed,” Zahra noted. “They seem confident. Competent, too.”

“Don’t worry, dear,” he assured her. “We’re better. Besides, we can’t let them get away with murdering our Katia.”

65

It was nine
A.M.
when al-Sabah strolled down the arcaded walkway of centuries-old Mutanabbi Street, the city’s beating heart of intellectual and literary life. Old men in knit vests and a few old women in
hijab
sat in the open windows of the Poets’ Caf
é
, arguing books and ideas while drinking strong tea from little cups shaped like hourglasses. The scent of fine tobacco was in the morning air.

Al-Sabah walked past and stopped a block away at a bookstall where he bought a copy of the
International Herald Tribune.
At exactly 9:04, the bomb went off in front of the caf
é
. The noise was thunderous. The fa
ç
ade exploded. Two wrens fell dead from the sky, killed when the blast sucked the oxygen from the air. Charred bodies and the smoking shells of dozens of cars littered the area.

Satisfied, al-Sabah tucked the newspaper under his arm and walked away.

*   *   *

In central Baghdad, Tahrir Square was a roundabout at the end of Jumhuriya Bridge. Six of the city’s major boulevards met there, the vehicles circling at dizzying speeds. At the nearby bus stop, two rockets exploded, shattering glass and melting signposts. Thick dust and debris rained down. Survivors screamed and ran.