The Assassins (21 page)

There was a moment of silence.

“Where did the tablet come from?” Judd asked Bosa.

“The Iraq National Museum by way of Saddam Hussein,” Bosa said. “Iraq had laws against anyone owning antiquities, but Saddam took what he wanted and gave pieces away, even to foreigners. Of course, if someone else took something, Saddam had them shot.”

“Okay, but why
this
tablet?” Judd tapped his index finger on the tray that held it. “Why have six assassins been fighting over it?”

“I’ll start at the beginning, and then maybe I won’t have to waste my time answering questions later. Do you know how Saddam began his political career?” When neither spoke, Bosa went on, “As an assassin—just like Eli Eichel, the Padre, Krot, Morgan, Seymour, and me. By the age of twenty he was doing wet work for the Baath party. By thirty-one, when the Baathists took over the country, he was known as a
shaqawah,
a man to be feared. His rise was spectacular. Eleven years later, he was president. At the same time, Iraq’s neighbor Iran was on the verge of revolution. The Shah of Iran needed to hide his fortune. So Saddam hired an international financier who talked the shah into depositing a hefty chunk in the Central Bank of Iraq for safekeeping. The shah paid the financier a 1.5 percent handling fee. Saddam paid him, too—another 1.5 percent—but this time it was to transfer the shah’s money out of the bank and into Saddam’s personal numbered accounts in the Cayman Islands and Credit Suisse in Switzerland.”

“Did the shah or his family recover any of the money?” Judd said.

“No, and the ayatollahs couldn’t get it either. And while they were fighting over the shah’s money, Saddam was next door, turning Iraq into his personal piggy bank. He took a cut of everything made, sold, or stolen. A few of his closest family members managed it all until his paranoia got so bad he wanted to be the only one who knew all the parts. That’s when he sent for a master of financial deception—”

“The financier who stole the shah’s money,” Eva guessed.

Bosa nodded. “His name was Rostam Rahim. His mother was English, but his father was Iraqi. He lived primarily in London. Rahim brought in five ‘assistants,’ each a sophisticated moneyman in his or her own right. They set up a six-part network using more than seventy banks.”

“So together they had the whole financial picture,” Judd said.

Eva nodded. “Six assassins. Six financiers. Six
dead
financiers.”

“You’ve nailed it,” Bosa said. “Each of us took out one financier. That left Saddam as the only person to know the location of every piece of his wealth.”

“They did one hell of a job hiding it,” Eva said. “As I recall, even after Saddam was toppled, the U.S. government could find only a few billion dollars.”

“Right again,” Bosa said. “Somewhere between forty and seventy billion dollars are still missing. Saddam’s family, bankers, and governments have been searching for years. It’s turned into the biggest—and quietest—treasure hunt the world has ever seen.”

“I wonder where all of it is?” Eva mused.

“Not in one place,” Judd said. “It’s probably still spread around. Imagine the power of the person who finds the various hidey-holes.”

The pilot’s voice sounded on the cabin speakers: “The ambulance is waiting at the airport. Prepare for landing.”

“We’ll be back,” Eva told Bosa.

With her in the lead, she and Judd returned aft. Tucker was as they had left him, motionless, an oxygen mask on his face and an IV in his arm. They strapped themselves in. There was a light jolt and a sense of drag on the plane. The wheels were down.

Eva reached for Tucker’s hand. It was warm but limp.

Judd leaned close to him. “This is just
sayonara
until the next time, old friend. We’ll miss you in Marrakech.”

Eva looked out the window as the plane stopped. “We’ve arrived, Tucker. There’s a staircase rolling toward us. Your ambulance is waiting.” She smiled at him as if his eyes were open and he could see how much she cared for him. She had to try one last time: “Tucker, flex your hand. Please.”

A tendril of cold air touched her cheek. She peered down the aisle and saw Jack had opened the craft’s door.

Judd saw it, too. “We don’t have much time. The paramedics will come for him soon.” He took Tucker’s other hand.

Eva leaned close, her lips almost touching the old spymaster’s ear. “You’ve been shot in the head. Do something—anything—we’re asking. It’ll mean you can still think, understand speech, and move on purpose. Come on, Tucker, you need to know for yourself.”

“I’m going to squeeze your hand again, Tucker. Then you squeeze mine.” Judd compressed it.

They waited.

“Did I feel something, Tucker?” Eva asked, excited.

Very slowly the index finger of Tucker’s left hand straightened, held a second, and collapsed.

Eva closed her eyes. “Thank God.”

Judd heaved a sigh of relief. “Congratulations, you old SOB!”

42

Aloft, on the way to Marrakech, Morocco

Climbing to 27,000 feet, the Carnivore’s trijet approached America’s coastline. Judd watched out the window as the winking lights of civilization ended and the black Atlantic Ocean spread before them. The only sound was the muted strum of the craft’s engines. He was alone in the cabin with Eva: Bosa was in the galley with Doug, while Jack and George were in the cockpit, the door closed.

Eva was resting her head back against her seat. She looked tired, but then all of them were. It had been a long day.

“I’m puzzled, Judd.” She sat up, folded her hands in her lap, and peered down at them. “You told me you couldn’t be with me because you hadn’t liked what you’d become in Iraq and needed a different life for yourself—different from all of the reminders you’d have with me. But just a few hours ago, you killed Chapman and two of his guards when they weren’t a threat to us—at least for the moment. Are you happy you did it?”

“
Happy
isn’t the word I’d use. I’d say a weight was lifted from me. It was as if time stopped. The noise receded. I felt at peace.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.
Peace.
”

“If it’s any comfort, it was a cold peace, almost as if I was removed from the world. Why won’t you look at me?”

She lifted her head. “Four months ago you told me you didn’t want to kill again, and now you’ve just erased Chapman. That was personal, right?”

He frowned. “If he’d had the chance, he would’ve killed us. I traded his life for ours. Doing Chapman was necessary.”

She hesitated. Then: “Do you have flashbacks about the black work you were doing in Iraq and Pakistan?”

“No. Why?”

“If you had them, would you tell me?”

“Of course,” he said. “Sure.”

Her expression said she did not believe him.

Then he understood and felt a pain close to his heart: “You’re afraid of me. You’re afraid I’ll hurt you.”

Her expression was unforgiving. “I didn’t know you’d done clean-up work in Iraq,” she reminded him. “You waited until I’d fallen in love with you to tell me. That was bad enough. Now you say you found a ‘cold peace’ wiping Chapman. You felt ‘removed from the world.’”

“Eva, please. Those were just my emotions in a very special set of circumstances. They’re not who I am. Certainly not the way I think about you. I’d
never
hurt you.”

When she said nothing, he changed the subject. “How do you feel about being kicked out of the CIA?”

“Terrible. My career as an intelligence officer ended before it could begin. And I hate that it looks as if it’s my fault. How do you feel about it?”

“Relieved. You’re free now.” He wanted to tell her he loved her, to hold her in his arms again. He took a deep breath. “Do you at least trust me enough to work with me again?”

She seemed to think about it. “We were a good team last time,” she decided.

It was a start. “Then we’ll keep it at that. Partners. Nothing personal.”

43

Marrakech, Morocco

Francesca Fabiano had come to Marrakech again, drawn back by a dream of something she could not name, something good. Pyotr Azarov told her he did not trust dreams, but she forgave him. She knew dreams had power, especially when one paid attention.

When she had explained it to him, he had listened attentively, his gaze sober.

“You’re better off using your brain than your emotions,” he advised. “You have a good brain, you know.”

It had all begun yesterday morning. As usual she had left her hotel on Avenue Hassan II and walked to the intersection with rue Mauritania. Both streets were a madhouse, with unmufflered cars and trucks, whining mopeds, and the occasional bellowing camel.

She waited at the curb for the traffic to stop. Near her, a young couple linked arms. Then a man carrying an English version of a Marrakech guidebook arrived and stood between her and the couple. He glanced at her and smiled.

She felt something shift inside her. Something wonderful. It was not just his good looks, although he was a striking figure with a shock of black hair silvered at the temples and a strong chin shadowed by a little vacation beard growth. His sunglasses were black as sin. Perhaps six feet tall, he gave off a feeling of athleticism in his beige slacks, open-neck white shirt, and sturdy leather sandals. He was probably in his fifties. She had just turned forty. Not an impossible age difference. He wore no wedding band.

Keeping her expression neutral, she looked away. There were many good-looking men on holiday in Marrakech. She would never see him again.

She focused on the bedlam in the street. A donkey was pulling a cart of vegetables down Hassan. It was staying close to the sidewalk to avoid the worst of the traffic. But then a pickup swerved, and a taxi driver leaned on his horn. The donkey’s ears lay back and he bolted, his hoofs pounding the pavement, the cart swaying, the driver’s face turning beet red as he yelled in Arabic and tried to control the animal.

Francesca jumped back and stumbled. Pytor caught her. That was Marrakech for you, she thought later. Where else would you meet a handsome man and fall in lust because of a freaked-out donkey?

“Are you all right?” He had a warm voice.

His arm was still around her back, supporting her. Each of his hands held one of her arms. They were firm, strong hands.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Thank you. That was quick of you.”

He smiled, and this time she smiled back.

“That’s me,” he said. “Speedy Gonzales. You know about Speedy?” When she shook her head, he explained, “He’s a cartoon mouse. The fastest mouse in all Mexico.”

She liked him. And she liked that he was concerned about her. She taught kindergarten in Portland, Maine, where female kindergarten teachers tended to marry early and well. Apparently some men—the kind with jobs and a future—had fantasies about them, which made the profession a slam dunk for women who wanted marriage. But she had not.

The stranger was holding her a little longer than he needed to, she realized.

“You’re trembling.” His forehead furrowed. “You could’ve been hurt. You need to sit down and relax. Let’s go to that outdoor caf
é
.” Releasing her, he gestured. “That’s where I’m staying—the Hotel Fashion.”

“I’m staying there, too.” Wow. “You saved my life. My name is Francesca Fabiano.”

“I’m Pyotr. Pyotr Azarov.” He spelled the first name. “You pronounce it ‘Peter,’ though.”

“Russian?”

“Cossack, from the Ukraine.” He was built like a Cossack, with the very good shoulders, the broad chest, and the long athletic legs bred to tame wild horses.

They sat at a small round table and ordered
caff
è
lattes
and hot croissants. They slathered the croissants with butter and jam then looked at each other and laughed, surprised each had wanted the same breakfast.

Pyotr drank his latte. “Imagine that, a blond Italian from Maine.”

“My people came from Milan, in northern Italy,” she lied. “There are a lot of blondes and redheads there.” Self-consciously she ran her fingers through her short hair, pushing it behind her ears. It was so pale it looked bleached white. She had a heart-shaped face, too, and a nose that turned up at the end.

“Yes, I remember that now.” He studied her. “It’s strange, but I feel we’ve met before.”

“Impossible. But I wish we had.”

*   *   *

Francesca and Pyotr took one of the shiny green
cal
è
ches
—horse-drawn carriages—to Marjorelle Gardens, the former home of Yves Saint Laurent. They strolled along shady paths, enjoying the vibrantly blooming trees and flowers.

He kept glancing at her. “Do you realize you’re beautiful? I have a feeling you don’t know that.”

Surprised, she looked away. “Thank you.”

“You’re here alone?” he wondered.

“Yes. I’ve traveled here five times now,” she said. “My mother worked here for a couple of years back in the eighties.” That was her biological mother, not the good-hearted woman in Maine who had ended up raising her and who she told the world was her mother.

“Did she work in the airport duty-free shop?” he asked casually.

She felt her eyes widen with surprise. “How did you know?”

“Oh,” he said airily, “that’s just one of the jobs Americans did back then in an outpost like Marrakech.”

44

As night approached, Francesca and Pyotr took a taxi to Place Djemaa el-Fna, Marrakech’s outdoor marketplace, and hurried into Chez Chegrouni and upstairs. The aroma of couscous made Francesca salivate. On the roof terrace, they chose a table at the railing where the view across the teeming market was panoramic.

“I’ve been told Djemaa el-Fna is Africa’s largest marketplace,” he said.

She inhaled. “It’s an amphetamine rush to the senses.”

As they ate traditional
tajine
slow-cooked stew, the sun set in a tangerine glow. “You really grew up in Maine?” Pyotr asked curiously. “I know this is crazy, but there was a woman I once knew named Roza Levinchev. It was a long time ago, and I was a young man, but I’ll never forget her.”