The Assassins (The Judd Ryder Books)

by Gayle Lynds

  “Agreed,” Judd told him. “We need to figure out a way to expose him.”

  As Judd and Hilu stood, the U.S. ambassador and the current Iraqi prime minister climbed on stage, followed by Tabrizi. Tabrizi shook hands with both men, then the three stood in a row facing the audience. It was apparent Tabrizi and Prime Minister al-Lami disliked each other, while the ambassador had placed himself between them. Cameramen were taping. Journalists were recording and taking notes.

  Al-Sabah—Seymour—finally appeared through an archway. He entered the crowd, greeting and making brief comments. He was far more impressive in person than he had been in the video. His face was open, his beard and mustache trimmed closely, his head at a happy, cocky angle. He was smiling an inviting smile, and it seemed when partygoers spotted him, they moved toward him. He radiated the sort of charismatic energy that attracted people, made them want to talk to him, agree with him, follow him.

  Close behind came a curly-haired man with a mustache and a muscular, athletic walk that spoke of strength and persistence. There was a bulge under his arm, and he surveyed the room as if looking for trouble. He must be al-Sabah’s bodyguard. Judd’s fingers itched, wanting his Beretta.

  Al-Sabah was getting closer to them. Judd felt a moment of nervousness that al-Sabah might recognize Bosa and him, despite their disguises.

  Just then, Judd’s smartphone vibrated. Hell. He would check the call later. He slid his hand inside his jacket pocket and touched the button that stopped the vibration.

  Bosa told Hilu to get al-Sabah’s attention. Hilu called out al-Sabah’s name.

  Al-Sabah turned. When he saw it was Hilu, he walked toward him. “You are well?”

  They pressed their hands against their hearts.

  “Very well, thank you.”

  Bosa cleared his throat. Hilu introduced him to al-Sabah.

  “I understand that you like the fine cigars,” Bosa told him in his best Italian accent. He held up two fat cigars, each a rich dark brown color and encased in a glass tube. “You have met the HMR?”

  Staring at the cigars, al-Sabah said reverently, “Gurkha His Majesty’s Reserve.”

  “Si, si.” Bosa gave him a confidential smile, one gourmand to another. “A secret blend of premium tobaccos from all over the world covered by a rare aged Dominican wrapper and infused with an entire bottle of Louis XIII, an extraordinary cognac. As you must know, fewer than a hundred boxes a year are produced, but then their standards are the highest.” Each cigar also cost about $750. The Carnivore liked the best, and so did Seymour. “I was fortunate to be allowed to purchase a box. I am happy to offer you a cigar. Care to join me outdoors to smoke? It is a grand and starry night.”

  Al-Sabah’s gray eyebrows rose. He looked around. The American ambassador was introducing the two candidates. Cameras were whirring. Reporters were making notes. The audience was busy listening. Zahra had joined a large group of women.

  “A pleasure,” al-Sabah told Bosa, and seemed to mean it. “This way.” He walked toward a patio door.

  The bodyguard followed through the throng. Next came Bosa with Hilu pushing his wheelchair. Judd took one final look around and caught up with them.

  80

  The yacht bobbed gently at anchor. The six Iraqis continued their work assembling the mortars on the deck.

  “I’m almost ready,” Morgan whispered.

  “What?” Eva looked at him, really looked. He was freeing his hands. “How did you—?”

  He shushed her. “Don’t stare at me.”

  Eva peered back at the Iraqis, who were concentrating on their mortars.

  “They weren’t expecting prisoners,” Morgan continued, “so they used ordinary rope, and they’re not trained guards so they didn’t take my belt—with the razor blade in it. Before they tied me up, I dug the razor blade out and hid it between my fingers. We’ve got to warn Bosa and Judd what they’re planning for the embassy. I want you to start making a row, get at least one of them to come here. I’ll give you Arabic insults to yell at them. With luck, whoever comes will have a gun and a cell. When he gets close enough, kick him in the pills. I’ll cut you loose. While I search him for a gun, you search him for a cell. If you find one, run to the bow and jump over. Hold the cell high, and keep it dry. Then start phoning. If the guy doesn’t have a cell, stay close until we can find one. Got it?”

  “Why do I jump over the bow? The sides are closer.”

  “The bow is farther from them, and it’s long and sculpted, which means it’s got a decent overhang to protect you from gunfire. Of course, you’re going to have to be smart and stay under it. Don’t get entrepreneurial.” His thin frame was intense, his gaze sweeping the yacht then studying the Iraqis. “As soon as you get a phone, go. Don’t look back or wait for me.”

  “And what will you be doing while I’m running and phoning and treading water?”

  “I’ll be keeping them distracted.”

  “It’s one against five. You won’t have a chance. If I stay, too, we can beat them.”

  He glared at her. “Better still for you to listen to someone who’s done this sort of thing before. I can handle five. Besides, our first priority is getting out the alert—more important than my survival, or even yours.”

  “You’re an assassin. You kill people for a living. Why are you doing this?”

  “I take pride in my work. That means I’m not a mass murderer.”

  Eva nodded. “Okay. what were those insults you promised me?”

  “Stand up and yell as bitterly as you can, ‘Ya khorg.’”

  “What’s it mean?”

  “‘Asshole.’ Move!”

  Shimmying up the pole, Eva balanced on her feet. “Hey, ya khorg!” she shouted.

  The Iraqis looked at Eva, puzzled, then at one another. Two shrugged. All went back to work as if nothing had happened.

  “Bidde neek immak,” whispered Morgan.

  “Bidde neek immak!” The Iraqis looked at her again. “Bidde neek immak!”

  Morgan chuckled and whispered, “That’s ‘fuck your mother.’ You got their attention. Pick one of them and yell ‘mos era’ at him. That’s ‘suck a dick.’”

  She chose the nearest Iraqi and leaned toward him. “Mos era!”

  Staring at her, the man folded his arms across his chest as if summoning patience.

  “Now try ‘yebnen kelp,’” Morgan said. “That means ‘son of a dog.’”

  “Yebnen kelp!” Eva spat at the man.

  The man turned to the others, said something, and nodded at Eva. He started walking toward her.

  “Tfoo ala wishak,” Morgan said, “and spit again. That was a good idea, especially now. It means ‘I spit in your face.’”

  Eva bellowed tfoo ala wishak at the man. She spat.

  That did it. The Iraqi’s eyes narrowed to angry slits. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out an automatic. Flipping it into the air, he caught it by the muzzle, ready to whack Eva. Head lowered, he paced toward her.

  She spat one last time. This time some of her spittle splashed him.

  She could see his face darken, his lips thin. He was seething. He was almost within striking distance. As he drew back his gun, he took one more step, and she braced, lifted her knee, and slammed her foot up into his crotch. It was a good, solid blow.

  He groaned and sagged in pain, gripping himself. Smiling, Eva kicked him under his jaw. His head snapped back. Like a praying mantis, Morgan was on him. He slashed the man’s jugular, spun around behind Eva, and cut the rope that bound her wrists. Reversing direction, Morgan returned to the shuddering body, crouched, grabbed the man’s gun, thumbed the hammer back, and fired two rounds across the dying man at the men working on the mortars.

  Eva dropped to her hands and knees and rifled through the man’s pockets, searching for a cell.

  Surprised by Morgan’s sudden assault, al-Sabah’s men were slow to reach for their weapons. Morgan’s third shot hit one in the chest, slamming him down on his
back. Morgan’s next bullet got another one in the hip.

  The men scattered, several scrambling aft toward the wheelhouse for cover. One sprinted starboard and dived among the chairs and tables, while another hit the deck, fumbling for his weapon. He was the closest. Morgan rushed him, firing twice before the man could train his pistol. The man’s face exploded. Morgan rolled the corpse onto its side, revealing the man’s automatic. Now Morgan had two pistols. He stretched out behind the corpse, using him for cover.

  “Did you find a phone?” he shouted back at Eva.

  “No!”

  “Come here, I’ll cover you.” He fired at the man hiding in the furniture, then at the first target he saw by the wheelhouse.

  An instant later Eva was lying next to him.

  “Take this and shoot anything that moves.” Morgan handed her one of the pistols.

  The Iraqi hiding in the furniture fired wildly. One of his rounds shattered the railing behind Eva and Morgan, and a second buried itself in the deck.

  Eva fired back as Morgan rolled the body, patting its pockets. She fired a second time, and her target dropped his gun and grabbed his thigh. She pivoted to her right and fired twice more, once at a man peering around the wheelhouse and once into the wheelhouse.

  “Got it!” Morgan thrust a cell phone at Eva. “Fully charged.”

  “Good.” She took the phone and gave him the automatic.

  He fired at a man moving toward one of the empty crates. Missing, he fired again directly at the crate the man had disappeared behind. “Get the hell out of here!”

  Eva hesitated, putting a hand on his shoulder. Morgan was trembling. His skeletal face was covered with sweat. Her throat tightened with worry.

  He swung his head around and frowned. “No time for fucking sentiment. Run!” he bellowed.

  Her heart in her throat, Eva scrambled up and zigzagged the twenty-five feet to the bow, bullets spitting into the deck and shooting up sharp slivers of wood. A hand on the railing, she vaulted overboard. She spread her left arm and legs wide and kept her right arm straight up, phone in hand. She hit the water hard, the cold swallowing her, pulling her under. Darkness engulfed her. And then she bobbed to the surface. She looked up at the phone and said a silent prayer of thanksgiving. It was dry.

  She rolled onto her back and flutter-kicked under the bow. Treading water, she angled the phone to catch moonlight and saw the icons on this Arabic phone were identical to the American ones with which she was familiar. She dialed Judd’s number. It rang twice, then went to voice mail. Frustrated, she waited for the beep signaling the end of the message. Automatic arms fire opened up above her, intermittent with the less-rapid fire of what she hoped was Morgan’s weapon.

  She spoke in a rushed voice: “Judd, I’m on a yacht in the Tigris. Al-Sabah’s men are setting up big-time mortars on the deck to attack the U.S. Embassy. Looks like they’ll start shooting soon. Don’t return my call.”

  She thought for a moment. She had Gloria Feit’s number, too. Tucker had insisted she memorize it. On the second ring, Gloria picked up.

  “Gloria, it’s Eva Blake. I’m in Baghdad. Actually, I’m under the bow of a yacht in the Tigris, treading water while I talk to you. Iraqi terrorists are getting ready to shell our embassy from the yacht. The man behind it is a local politician named Siraj al-Sabah.” She spelled the name. “He’s probably the assassin known as Seymour. Burleigh Morgan is on board, trying to stop them. If he can’t, there’s going to be a shelling.” As gunfire sounded above, she lifted the cell. Returning it to her ear, she said, “Did you hear that?”

  “Yes.” As expected, Gloria was quick to understand. “How do I know it’s you, Eva?”

  “Judd Ryder and I got here this afternoon. Don’t ask how. We left Tucker in a Maryland hospital with”—a burst of automatic weapons fire drowned her out—“a head wound. Judd’s somewhere in Baghdad, but I can’t reach him to get help.”

  “Where are you?”

  “The yacht is in the Tigris south of the main part of the city, west of a bridge, and northwest of what looks like a refinery.”

  At that moment there was a fusillade of fire from above. The surface of the water erupted in a wide arc, crashing down on her. The Iraqis were shooting down, trying to hit her. In a moment they would fire under the bow. She had to move. She ended the call.

  81

  As soon as Morgan heard a solid splash near the bow, he exhaled, relieved. Oddly, none of the Iraqis had fired at him once Eva went overboard.

  Frowning, he decided they probably had automatic weapons and had been quiet only because they were locating and loading them. If that were true, then the corpse he had been using for cover would be lousy protection. He had to keep the men busy so Eva had enough time to make as many phone calls as she needed. He looked quickly around. There was the furniture along both sides of the boat—flimsy cover at best—and there was the wheelhouse, but that was closer to them than it was to him.

  And there were the mortars. Better yet, there were the piles of Strix rounds. The Iraqis could not shoot if he hid behind them for fear of setting them off or at least rendering them useless. On the other hand, hiding behind deadly munitions might decrease his chance of survival. He felt a rush—poor odds thrilled him.

  He studied the rounds: The Iraqis had stacked them in two groups of eighteen—enough for a two-gun, two-minute attack, which would do enough damage that it could kill hundreds and take months to repair. Each stack was about a yard wide and twenty inches high. Decent cover.

  He fired twice more at the wheelhouse, jumped up over the body, dashed across the deck, and hurled himself behind the munitions pile closest to the bow. Christ, that hurt. Pain throbbed in his arthritic knees and ankles, and landing lengthwise on the hardwood was like slamming into a bulldozer. With the back of his hand, he wiped sweat from his face. He massaged his left elbow.

  With the crack of gunfire, bullets zinged overhead. He had been right—they were deliberately firing above him, avoiding hitting the ammo.

  He knew what they would do next. Some would continue to fire over his head or to his left, away from the nearest mortar, to keep him down. Others would advance along the side of the boat on his left and right, trying to flank him. In fact, if they were smart, one or more would take to the dory, paddle around, and attack him from behind.

  He peered around the right end of the Strix stack. Sure enough, someone was low-crawling along the port gunwale. A quick shot, and the man collapsed. By Morgan’s count, that meant three were left. His odds were improving. Another burst overhead, after which he heard what sounded like a splash, coming from his left. It could not be Eva, not from his left. Morgan longed for a hand grenade. Another burst overhead. He peered around the left end of the stack and then again around the right end. Nobody visible. Another burst, probably to muffle the sounds of the man or men in the water. Morgan flipped over so his back rested against the Strix ordnance. The attack would come up over the gunwale, probably from the starboard because a shot from the bow risked hitting the projectiles.

  A moment later a hand reached up and grasped a stanchion, at the starboard rail. It was dead even with the post Morgan had been tied to. He brought his right foot up under his buttock and rested his right pistol hand on his knee, training it on the Iraqi’s fingers. A couple of seconds later a forehead appeared. Morgan fired, and the forehead splattered and dropped back out of sight.

  An instant later, Morgan felt a hammer blow to his right midsection. He turned to see the man who had been hidden in the furniture aim his weapon again.

  Morgan tried to swing his pistol to his right but could not get his arm to move. The man fired again, and a powerful impact to his right shoulder smacked Morgan flat on the deck on his left side. His right arm refused to work. He could not defend himself. The man was yelling something.

  Morgan still had a pistol in his left hand. He managed to move his left arm so he could aim at the laptop hooked to the nearest mortar. He fired into the scre
en. He heard someone run past him toward the bow. He heard automatic gunfire at the bow. Now a man was standing over him, aiming a pistol at his face. The last thing Morgan saw was the man’s finger contracting the trigger.

  82

  Washington, D.C.

  When the phone went dead, Gloria got up from her desk and headed to Scott Bridgeman’s office. The door was closed. She knocked once and opened it without waiting for an invitation. Bridgeman was on the phone. His youthful face looked at her with sharp disapproval.

  “Hang up, quick,” she told him.

  His forehead knitted in surprise. He ended the connection. “This had better be good, Gloria,” he warned.

  “Go to our recorded calls.” She pointed to his phone. “You’ve got to listen to the message that just came in.”

  He punched a couple of buttons, then put the conversation on speakerphone. Eva’s message replayed perfectly, the gunfire loud and lethal.

  “Dammit all to hell.” He shook his head. “What do you make of it?”

  “Don’t take a chance, boss. Let me order up the satellite feed, and we can try to locate the yacht and confirm the mortars.”

  The National Reconnaissance Office oversaw the designing, building, launching, and maintaining of U.S. intelligence satellites, while the National Security Agency collected and analyzed foreign communications and signals intelligence. Catapult had been supplied with a direct feed of live satellite imagery. The satellites over Baghdad were so good they could read the playing cards at a poker game at midnight.

  Without a word, Bridgeman rose from his desk and hurried out. Gloria followed as he headed down the hall to IT. He opened the door on a rumble of voices and clicking keyboards. Worktables arranged in neat rows housed a dozen secure computers and phones. The usual cans of soda, crumpled take-out sacks, and empty pizza boxes littered the area, impregnating everything with the salt-and-grease odor of fast food. The place radiated a sense of urgency.

  Debi Watson, the manager, was studying one of the sixteen monitors hung on the opposite wall. A pretty young brunette in a short black skirt and pink sweater, she turned as soon as they walked in.