by Gayle Lynds
“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 café.
“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, th
ey 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.
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 t
hem 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.
