The Assassins (34 page)

Judd called his friend Bash Badawi in Washington. It was the middle of the night there, but Bash was at work.

“Bridgeman’s locked down Catapult,” Bash complained. “He’s suspicious we’re helping you. He’s riding Gloria’s tail like she’s a surfboard. Everything has to go through him until you and Eva are brought in, and that includes all assignments, queries, and information searches. He’s got us by the nuts. I can’t help you, buddy. If I did, he’d be able to somehow backtrack to where you are.”

“Terrific.” Judd fought discouragement.

“But I’ve got some good news,” Bash continued. “Tucker’s hemorrhaging has stopped, and there are signs he’s regaining consciousness. For the first time, doctors are sounding somewhat optimistic.”

Smiling, Judd said good-bye and told Eva about Tucker.

As she listened, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “Thank God.” But then she sighed and pointed at the e-mail displayed on the laptop screen in front of her. “I didn’t hear back from my cuneiform expert, so I e-mailed her assistant. He says she’s in Death Valley investigating pictographs and won’t be back until tomorrow afternoon. As a personal favor, he’s going to try to find someone else to get started on the cuneiform right away, but we shouldn’t expect much. As he says, some cuneiform is more difficult to translate than others.”

The tap-tap of keyboards being worked on filled the cabin.

Crossing his arms, Judd thought about the situation in Iraq. Langley always had players in the field there, and right now they would be focused on the country’s politics. Iraq was a critical player in the Persian Gulf, and the region was an area of enormous national interest to the United States. The problem was, Prime Minister al-Lami’s coalition was fragmented and only erratically able to control the ministries, the military, and the security forces. The government’s logistical and planning abilities were limited, too, making it incapable of any serious national defense. Still, it was in the best interests of the United States that al-Lami be reelected instead of a Shiite extremist like Tabrizi. Al-Lami’s quasi-democratic regime might be short on stability and long on thuggery, and it might be unduly interfered with by the Iranians, but at least it formed the basis of a state that could evolve in a better direction.

The CIA station in Baghdad would have in-depth dossiers on everyone who was connected to the election, including Tabrizi’s would-be kingmaker, al-Sabah. The problem was, by now the station also had Bridgeman’s orders to capture Eva and him. There was no way he could get around that.

He cursed under his breath.

Checking the time, he saw it was almost noon in Baghdad. He dialed Hilu Wahid. Hilu owned a tour guide business—his male relatives did most of the guiding, and his wife ran the office. A top translator, he also worked for the U.S. Embassy, where he sometimes acted as unofficial go-between with Iraqi politicians, businesspeople, tribal leaders, and the media.

Hilu was connected, a fixer who moved in many circles.

After five rings, a brisk voice answered.
“A-salaamu aleekum.”

“
Masa’ah alkhier,
Hilu. It’s your old friend Judd Ryder.”

Hilu was instantly alert. “Didn’t I put you on a plane back to Washington a couple of days ago, or am I hallucinating?”

“I couldn’t stay away. I’ll be in Baghdad in a couple of hours.”

“I’d say welcome back, but I can hear in your voice you want something. You are a scamp, Judd. Hold on.” There was a pause. “All right, I’ve got my reading glasses and a pad of paper. Talk.”

“Tell me about Siraj al-Sabah.”

Judd heard a sudden intake of breath.

“That dog,” Hilu growled. “He has a mountain of ambition but a black heart. He thinks he can get anything by spreading money like manure. Al-Sabah and Tabrizi sometimes act as if Iran is somehow a better, purer country than Iraq because its ayatollahs say religion and government are the same. ‘Islam
is
politics’—that’s what they say.” He muttered something under his breath. “Our Shiite imams are different. They say religion shouldn’t bother with day-to-day government. There are other differences, too. Iranians speak Farsi, and we speak Arabic. They’re Persians, and we’re Arabs. In the old days, Iraqi fathers wouldn’t give their daughters in marriage to Persians—it was considered shameful. We are
not
Iran, and I don’t want to be. Iran wants to swallow us whole, but we’re not going to let them do it!” Hilu’s hard, angry breathing sounded in Judd’s ear. “Is that enough background for you?”

“That’s helpful, but what about al-Sabah’s family? Where does he come from? Where did he get so much money?”

“Okay, okay. There’s someone you need to meet when you get here. He works for al-Sabah and knows him personally. He’ll give you an earful. He wants to leave al-Sabah’s organization, but there are only two ways he says you can get out—you die in the field, or he has you killed.”

“Good. Can you arrange it?”

“Of course. He’s my cousin.”

They said good-bye, and Judd slid his cell phone into his pocket. He had been so focused that he had not noticed someone had pulled the shades down on the jet’s windows. Morgan was dozing in his chair, his gaunt head lying to the side, his beak of a nose in grand profile against the seat’s pale leather back. Bosa’s and Eva’s eyes were closed, and they appeared to be sleeping, too. In the cockpit, Jack and George took a tray of sandwiches from Doug and exchanged some banter.

As Doug left, they slammed the door shut.

“Fly boys.” Doug shook his head. “I’m going to lie down, too. Don’t bother me unless there’s blood on the floor.”

As Doug headed aft, all of them opened their eyes and peered at Judd.

“What did your Iraqi friend say?” Eva asked.

Judd repeated the information from Hilu.

A couple of minutes later, Judd’s cell phone buzzed. He answered quickly. “Yes?”

“It’s Hilu, my friend. All is arranged. My cousin’s name is Mahmoud Issa.” He related the address. “He’ll meet you at four
P.M.
I’ll try to be there, too. He says to be careful. Very careful.”

71

Baghdad, Iraq

Judd peered down at Baghdad International Airport. Ten miles west of the city, it was an island of concrete and steel in the dun-colored desert. As the jet circled toward landing, he could see a couple of jets taxiing, a few helicopters waiting, and four planes parked at the terminal.

As he looked around, a black cloud erupted in northeast Baghdad, then another billowed up in the downtown area. More bombings.

“Iraq’s a dangerous place these days,” Eva commented.

“Worse than ever,” he told her. “Businesspeople and tourists are reluctant to come here. Now there are big empty spaces at the airport again where nothing is going on.”

“It used to be an international hub,” Morgan remembered. “Flying into Baghdad wasn’t like flying into Frankfurt, but it was pretty damn impressive.”

Bosa said nothing, just shook his head.

It was almost three o’clock. Judd and Bosa had a little more than an hour to get to the meeting with Mahmoud Issa. The rendezvous was in downtown Baghdad, and if the traffic were bad, they would not make it in time. Eva and Morgan were going to SIL headquarters to watch for al-Sabah. It, too, was in downtown Baghdad.

As the jet descended, Judd spotted two black SUVs parked together next to a chain-link fence skirting the airport’s private section. Jack had called ahead and rented two Ford Explorer SUVs, both armored of course and both black, because black was a favored color in Baghdad to warn of power. The rental agency had taped keys under the driver’s side back fenders.

Landing, they taxied past the terminal and toward a short line of private jets then parked, the motors decelerating. Their Gulfstream was the largest one there. A row of small-craft hangars stood off to the side.

Jack and George left the cockpit and pulled on their dark blue cashmere jackets, which matched their dark blue cashmere pants. Their shirts were crisp white, their ties matching—blue and orange stripes. They adjusted their flat-topped hats. Shiny gold wings were pinned atop their shoulders. There was a slight bulge inside each’s jacket where their pistols were holstered.

“My God, you look like professionals,” Morgan said.

“Naturally.” Jack gestured. “If you please, George.”

“Delighted.” George opened the jet’s door and let down the staircase.

Warm, dry air wafted into the plane.

Bosa handed Jack a wad of euros. In Jack’s other hand were six passports—four were for Bosa, Jack, George, and Morgan and were as realistic as a small fortune could buy, one was for Judd from the selection of cover identities he had brought from home in his backpack, while the last one was more obviously fraudulent, despite Doug’s fancy computer work applying Eva’s photo.

Jack headed down the staircase. George followed.

Morgan and Bosa remained in their seats, while Judd and Eva peered out their windows at the transaction below. The customs inspector was a sharp-eyed man with a drooping mustache, a gray uniform, and brown loafers. His gaze was on the euros.

Judd watched as the man pocketed the cash. His smile was huge, but then the tip was probably two months of income for him. Without examining the passports, he stamped them and handed them back. He gazed up at the jet and waved. And then for the briefest of moments, his expression changed. There was surprise and some kind of recognition.

“What just happened?” Eva asked.

“I’m not sure,” Judd said.

Bosa frowned. “Is there a problem?”

“We’ll let you know,” Judd told him.

The inspector started to back off. Jack put his hand over his heart and nodded, saying good-bye. The inspector rallied and placed his hand over his heart in response. Then he hurriedly walked away.

Jack pushed his hat up on the back of his head and put his hands on his hips, watching the customs official’s retreat. He had sensed something had happened, too.

All of a sudden the customs man broke into a trot and put a cell phone to his ear.

Immediately, Jack and George ran, chasing him.

On the plane, Judd jumped up. “We’ve got a problem, Bosa.”

Judd bolted down the staircase, Eva close behind. Their feet pounded over the tarmac. Ahead of them, Jack and George huffed, their arms pumping as they pursued.

Judd passed the older pair just as the customs official glanced over his shoulder. His eyes opened wide in alarm, and he put on a burst of speed.

But Judd was close. He accelerated and rammed his shoulder into the inspector’s back. Propelled forward, the man stumbled, crashed, and slid belly first across the tarmac. Somehow, Judd kept his balance, ran past, and pivoted.

As he hurried back, Jack and George grabbed the man under his arms and hauled him up to his feet.

“What in hell was that all about?” Jack asked him in Arabic.

The customs official panted. His face dripped sweat. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a crumpled paper.

Two shots rang out. The inspector’s throat exploded. Blood and flesh spurted.

Judd grabbed Eva and pulled her down. Jack and George hit the ground, too. Peering up and around, Judd saw two men with automatic rifles standing outside the passenger terminal. They aimed again.

Suddenly a fusillade of gunfire exploded from the plane, ripping through the attackers’ torsos.

Judd turned again, seeing Bosa standing at the top of the jet’s stairs, a menacing figure, expressionless, an AK-47 in his hands. The attackers had been focused on the customs official. Bosa had been focused on them. Whatever the customs inspector knew, the attackers did not want him to tell it.

Judd scanned the area. No one else was in sight, but that would not last forever.

“We’ve got to get the hell out of here!” Bosa yelled from the staircase. “Jack and George, stash the bodies in one of those hangars.”

In a flurry of activity, everyone rushed to do their jobs. Judd snatched up the inspector’s cell phone and the crumpled paper then sprinted to the jet, following Bosa and Eva inside.

Morgan was waiting for them with their backpacks.

Bosa barked orders to Doug. “Tell Jack and George to fly this crate out of here ASAP, rent a new one, and fly back. This time they should land at Al-Rasheed. Text, don’t call unless you absolutely have to.”

Leaving Doug behind, they hurried down the staircase again. The bodies of the customs inspector and the two other men were no longer where they had fallen. Jack and George were at the row of small hangars, dragging them inside.

In the lead, Judd and Eva sprinted toward the gate in the chain-link fence.

“Where are the police?” Eva asked as they ran. “At least airport security should be here. They had to have heard the gunshots. There aren’t even any sirens.”

“Welcome to Baghdad,” Judd said grimly. He gestured at the skyline, where two more plumes of brown and gray smoke spread upward. “Today’s bombings are our competition for official attention. Otherwise, security would be crawling up to our hairlines. Right now, it’s good for us. Later on, it might not be.”

The lock on the gate had been shot out. Judd shoved the gate open, and they jogged to the pair of black SUVs, stopping between them where they were least exposed. He peered back across the tarmac—Bosa and Morgan were hurrying to catch up.

He opened the crumpled paper. “Let’s see what set off the customs inspector.”

It was a flyer. The centerpiece was a photo of Eva and him, crouched in shadows but peering up. Judd translated the first three lines from the Arabic:

€10,000 REWARD

For the Location of

Greg & Courtney Roman

“Then it goes on to say we’re in our thirties and either American or British,” he told her. “There’s no name to contact, but a local Baghdad number to call.”

“When the customs man looked up at the plane, he must’ve recognized us,” she said.

Judd was studying the photo. “This was shot at the back of Liza’s garage. It’s probably from one of Liza’s security cameras. We told her we were hunting for Seymour, remember?”