The Assassins (37 page)
Authors: Gayle Lynds
* * *
“I don’t like it.” Morgan glared at the Hummer. “There’s not much traffic here, but he’s driving so slow he could be in a funeral procession.”
Eva’s elbow was on the back of her seat, and she was leaning over it, staring out the rear window. “There’s a cherry-red motor scooter behind us. I swear I saw it behind us earlier.”
“We’ve been made?” Morgan seemed to ask himself, not her.
“Doesn’t look good.”
The Hummer passed a clothing store, an appliance store, a toy store, and pulled into a parking garage.
“A trap!” Eva said.
“No shit. No way are we going in there.” Morgan hit the accelerator.
An enormous bakery van careened out of the parking garage’s exit. The impact felt like a bulldozer had just run into them. Air bags exploded, locking Eva and Morgan against their seats. She pushed against the bag. Pain shot through her chest—some of her ribs were maybe cracked. Morgan swore words she had never heard. He had a cut on his forehead that was bleeding down his cheek. Somehow he must have hit the steering wheel. She could not reach her Glock. Morgan was struggling, trying to get to his weapon.
Her door swung open.
Carrying an AK-47, a tall, rugged man with a long black mustache stared at her, then at the photo on the flyer he held.
“How nice of you to stop by, Courtney Roman,” he mocked. “We’re planning a party just for you.”
[B]y one single [assassin] on foot, a king may be stricken with terror, though he own more than a hundred thousand horsemen.
—Ismaili Poem in Praise of the Fidawis,
by a thirteenth-century Persian poet
Zahra and Siraj al-Sabah lived in central Baghdad in the heavily fortified Green Zone, once the infamous playground of Saddam Hussein’s family and governing elite, now the nerve center of Iraq’s national government and home to embassies and the political elite. The al-Sabahs’ villa was on a street lined with swaying palms. Red bougainvillea climbed the white walls, and glistening blue tiles blanketed the driveway. The interior was comfortable, with hand-knotted carpets on the marble floors, Western-style furniture covered in Iraqi-designed prints, and antique tables from the Ottoman era.
It had been a long day, especially after a night of little sleep. Al-Sabah had napped, while his wife had paced the house, mourning Katia. Now he was home from meeting with Ayatollah Gilani and ready for a drink. He was an observant Muslim in all things but this: If Muhammad could drink fermented camel’s milk, then he was not going to deprive himself of the occasional cocktail.
In the den, Zahra was lying on a couch, an arm over her eyes, a wad of tissues in her hand. He walked around behind the bar. “Gin and tonic?”
She sat up, her face puffy, her eyes rimmed in red.
“Do you think I did the wrong thing?” she asked in Russian.
“If you mean about Marrakech, you didn’t have any choice,” he answered in Russian. “You were sanctioned. Lubyanka was setting up the ‘accident’ when we staged your suicide. I’m making you a drink. Alcohol will help. Alcohol always helps Russians.”
It was a little joke, and she actually smiled at him.
Then she sobbed. “I was so ashamed. I couldn’t tell Katia. How could I tell her what her mother had become? I wanted her to believe in a good mother so she could be one herself someday.” She lowered her head, crying into the tissues.
He quickly mixed the drinks and carried them to the couch. He set them on the table then put his arms around her, holding her close. She buried her face in his chest, her tears soaking his shirt. The sobs and tears and great gasps of breath touched an old part of him, a lost part that once knew how to cry.
“Darling Roza, dear Roza,” he crooned. “You gave her a good life. She was free to do and become anything she wanted in the United States. If you’d taken her to Marrakech, we would’ve had to fake her death, too, and she would’ve had to go into hiding with us. She was just a teenager. She wouldn’t have been able to have any sort of normal life. And how could we expect her to understand much less approve of the way we were living? Her mother was not only an assassin, but she loved two men, and they her. Katia would’ve hated it. Hated you; hated all of us. Her good memories and love for you and Grigori would’ve died.”
Roza—Zahra—pulled away and leaned her head back against the couch. Her graying blond hair was a maelstrom. Her lips were swollen.
“You’re right.” She closed her eyes. “I really fucked things up.”
“No, circumstances did. All of us got caught in something bigger than us—the needs of our countries. And then the countries left us twisting in the wind. Imagine what hell her life would’ve been if we’d brought her to Iraq with us. She was used to the freedom of being a young woman in a Western country. That could’ve gotten her killed here, if a car bomb or IED or random gunfire didn’t.”
Roza nodded. Then she nodded again, as if telling herself to get on with it. “I’ll have that drink now.”
He picked up the martinis and handed her one. He touched the rim of his glass to hers, and they heard the musical clink of fine crystal. “To Katia Levinchev, our daughter.” Not Grigori’s daughter,
his
daughter. Neither Grigori nor Katia ever knew. It had been a hard thing for him to live with, but in the beginning it had been necessary because of the politics of the time, of the distrust in both their organizations if Roza had divorced Grigori and married him. Later the lie had been necessary to protect the girl.
“We did the best we could.” She gave him a brave smile. “Now tell me how your meeting went with Ayatollah Gilani.”
* * *
A half hour later a call came in from Jabari. “Good news. Mahmoud Issa is dead. The bomb went off in his office as planned. None of our people has said anything, but there’s a new sobriety. They understand it was an execution—and why. We won’t have any more attempts at defection. Also I got a phone call from one of the waiters. He swore he’d seen Greg Roman in the nightclub.”
“You think he really saw Roman?”
“I sent people to check it out, but no one’s been able to find out for sure.”
“Unfortunate. It’d be nice to have an easy solution.”
“But we’re ahead with Courtney Roman.” Jabari’s voice was triumphant. “We staged a car crash and got her. An old man was driving. I took a photo of him. I’ve e-mailed it to you.”
“Hold on.”
Al-Sabah switched functions on his iPhone, checked his e-mail, and saw the familiar face of an angry old man with a long silver ponytail. Blood streaked his cheek. Trapped by a car’s air bag, his lips were pulled back in a snarl.
Cursing, he reopened the line to Jabari. “It’s Burleigh Morgan. Somehow he escaped the car bomb we set for him in Paris.”
“What do you want us to do with him and the woman?”
Al-Sabah thought a moment, then he gave instructions.
Coughing, Judd regained consciousness. Plaster dust snowed down from the ceiling in Mahmoud’s office. Bosa and he were covered with it. Elsewhere in the nightclub, women were screaming. Someone was gagging. Mahmoud’s arm lay on the coffee table in front of them, tendons and veins dripping blood. Judd could see other body parts scattered around the room. While the bomb had detonated next to the wall with the whorehouse, leaving a large hole, Bosa and he had been protected by the cabinet and sofas.
“You’ve still got the miniature camera?” Bosa asked.
Judd lifted his hand from his pistol. There it was, the camera that looked like an ordinary memory stick. As it slipped off the gun, he grabbed it and put it in his jeans pocket. With luck, it contained the complete video of what Mahmoud had told them. “Sure do.”
Exchanging a glance, the two men shook themselves into action and rushed out of the room, passing the working ladies and johns, who were motionless, stunned. White dust coated them, too. The bouncer was on his feet but seemed dazed. He flung open the door and ran out. They followed.
It was bedlam. People yelled and pushed for the exits. Judd and Bosa entered the throng, people pressing all around. The stench of fear-induced sweat rose in the air. And then Judd saw a flyer in the hand of one of the waiters. The man was surveying the crowd.
Judd turned sideways, his back to the man, moving with the crowd.
“I’ve got him!” A different waiter was looking directly at Judd from across the crowd, waving the flyer. He jostled people aside, trying to reach Judd.
“Holy shit.” Judd looked for an opening so he could get out more quickly.
From behind, Bosa said, “I see him.”
Judd looked back over his shoulder. Bosa had stopped moving. People cursed and shoved him.
The waiter’s gaze was locked on Judd. But as soon as he started past Bosa, Bosa cold-cocked him. There was a flash of surprise on the man’s face, then he collapsed. Bosa caught him and dumped him under a table.
At last Judd reached the counter where the young man had tried to take their weapons. He was still there, backed into a corner. Some men were fighting to get past one another to their firearms; others were waving euros and dollars, trying to buy them back.
Judd could smell fresh air. The nightclub’s double doors were wide open.
“Judd!” The voice was loud. It came from somewhere ahead.
That was when he saw him—Hilu Wahid. Improbably, he was peering over the top of one of the doors. Police sirens were shrieking.
Hilu bellowed, “Judd!
Ya Allah! Ya Allah!
” For God’s sake, hurry!
Propelled by the stream of people, Judd burst out of the doorway. Hilu climbed off the back of a man who looked strong enough to lift a bank vault. Hilu was perhaps five feet five inches tall, a chubby-cheeked, friendly-looking man with thick tufts of black hair on the sides of his head. He handed a wad of dinars to the man who had been his stepladder and thanked him politely.
“Where’s your car, Judd?” As Hilu talked, his eyes kept moving, scouring faces, checking hands.
Bosa arrived, and Judd introduced them. Then the three walked off briskly, the smaller man between them.
“You’re in trouble?” Judd asked Hilu.
“We’re all in trouble. I hope you got a car that’s armored and has plenty of horses under the hood. I just dropped by to make sure everything was going fine between you and Mahmoud. And then
boom
!” He threw his hands up into the air.
It was twilight. The streetlamps in this enclave for the wealthy blinked on, sending pools of yellow light across the sidewalks.
Behind them, police cars and ambulances were arriving, beacons flashing. But the three of them were now far enough away from the nightclub that the sidewalks and avenues seemed just normally busy, people strolling, shopping. They passed display windows showcasing the latest Paris fashions.
Hilu shook his fist at one window boasting designer-label suits for men. “The government is full of thieves. A lot of well-positioned officials and businessmen are getting disgustingly rich!” He walked a few steps muttering to himself. “I heard from the people coming out of the nightclub that Mahmoud was killed when the bomb went off. Is that true?”
“Yes.” Judd described the explosion triggered by Mahmoud’s putting the stopper back into his decanter.
Hilu shook his head angrily. “It had to have been al-Sabah who ordered the hit. Al-Sabah has spies everywhere. He must have heard Mahmoud wanted to quit. You’d think I’d be used to this. One more death in the family. Terrible. Mahmoud has—
had
—a wife and six children. And now, finally, he comes to his senses about leaving al-Sabah and what happens? He dies!”
They arrived at their rental SUV. Judd and Bosa climbed into the front seat, Bosa behind the steering wheel, while Hilu got into the rear.
As Bosa drove into the street, Judd opened his disposable smartphone and called up his e-mail program. There it was—the e-mail with the attachment of the audio-video of Mahmoud.
“Did you get it?” Bosa wanted to know.
“It arrived. I’ll tell you in a minute if I can download it.” He opened the attachment, and on his phone’s digital screen appeared Mahmoud, putting out his cigarette and picking up the decanter.
“Are you going to tell me what Mahmoud said?” Hilu asked impatiently.
“I’ll let him tell you himself.” Judd handed the smartphone to Hilu.
The dead man’s voice filled the SUV: “When the great Abbasid caliph al-Mansur founded this city, he called it Medinat al-Salam, the City of Peace, but we’ve seen almost continuous war.…”
Judd looked back. Hilu was silent, his eyes moist. The hand holding the phone trembled as he listened to Mahmoud talk about al-Sabah, Zahra, Tabrizi, and their plot with the Iranian mullahs. Finally the bomb exploded. The noise seemed to send shock waves through the car.
Hilu let out a long stream of air and handed the phone forward to Judd.
“Poor Mahmoud,” Hilu said. “It’s good you’ve got this recording. It’s his testimony, isn’t it? I always thought Tabrizi wanted to make us into a Little Iran. What they’re doing scares the spit out of me. Think of the people they’ve killed to get to this point!”
Bosa pulled the SUV to the curb. Sitting in the shadows, they spent the next half hour phoning people to alert them about the forthcoming attack.
The first person Judd called was Kari Timonen, CIA station chief in Baghdad. “Is the attack coming from land, sea, or air, Judd?” Timonen’s tone dripped sarcasm.
“I don’t know,” Judd admitted.
“So let’s make sure I understand what you’re saying.… An Iraqi strong-arm told you that one of the country’s most respected politicians is planning a terrorist attack on an unnamed target, but there’s no way to back up the information because your source is dead. Is this like the massacre at the hunt club in Maryland that you say you witnessed? The massacre that there’s absolutely no trace of? Come on, Judd. No one who knows your background is going to believe you.”
Judd had a sinking feeling Timonen was right.
“How about you drop by for a visit?” the CIA man suggested. “I’ve got an order to tag and ship you back to Langley.”
