The Assassins (36 page)

Islamic lawyers and scholars were working on a constitution in which the two nations would be united under a Shiite central organization. They would integrate their school systems to teach both Farsi and Arabic. Citizens would have the right to cross their shared border without restriction. All cross-border tariffs and duties would be eliminated. Additional highways and rail systems would be built to speed commerce between the two states of the union. Groundwork would begin for a unified currency and economy. Each nation would have its own sharia courts, but there would be a Union of Shiite States supreme sharia to which questions and disputes would be referred.

As with NATO, the two states would share defense responsibilities. Iran was far stronger militarily. It had established a military self-sufficiency program in the 1980s, and today it not only bought but built its own jet fighters, tanks, missiles, submarines, torpedoes, and drones. It had the largest military in the Gulf region and controlled the Strait of Hormuz, through which much of the world’s oil passed every day. Iran’s proven oil reserves and natural gas reserves were sizable, but Iraq had the advantage—its oil reserves were even larger. Together, they were sitting on most of the globe’s oil and natural gas, with the result that the USS would have all of the wealth, influence, and power that came with such rich petroleum and gas reserves. At last, the world would again give them the respect they deserved.

Al-Sabah and Ayatollah Gilani exchanged gratified smiles.

“I’m satisfied,” Gilani said.

“Yes,” al-Sabah agreed. “I’m also satisfied.”

They left the room together, walking side-by-side down the narrow stone hall.

Gilani stroked his long beard thoughtfully. “How are your plans developing for tonight?”

“In a matter of hours, it will all be over,” al-Sabah assured him. “Tonight’s action will shake my people to the core. There’s nothing worse than to lose confidence in one’s government, and Iraqis’ confidence, which is already shaky, is going to evaporate. Our friend Tabrizi will be elected prime minister and appoint a cabinet of Shiites, either religious or easily controlled.”

“My fellow mullahs are ready to move forward,” Ayatollah Gilani told him gravely. “Everything depends on you now. What exactly is this ‘action’?”

Al-Sabah hesitated. Then he quoted: “‘It is He who makes the lightning flash upon you, inspiring you with fear and hope, and gathers up the heavy clouds. The thunder sounds His praises, and the angels, too, in awe of him. He hurls his thunderbolts at whom He pleases. Yet the unbelievers wrangle about God.’”

Gilani pressed his Koran against his heart. “Allah is ever all-aware. Yes, I understand. Muhammad was forced into a violent armed struggle against his enemies. We should expect nothing less.”

They exchanged farewells. Wishing the ayatollah a safe journey back to Tehran, al-Sabah headed upstairs and out into the warm Baghdad afternoon. With each step he remembered his years in Islamic Jihad, when he had fought with sincere dedication to restore the caliphate to Shiite Islam; then there were his years as “Seymour,” feared international assassin; and finally, now, there was his life in Baghdad and the happiness he had found here. He had come full circle. At last he was able to plant the roots of his boyhood dream of an all-powerful Shiism, and it would be right here in Baghdad, in the city of myth and legend.
His
myth,
his
legend.

74

It did not look like the Wild West, but it had the feel of it, Judd thought as he and Bosa stepped inside Sindbad’s Oar. It was the new, hypermodern nightclub where they were to meet Mahmoud Issa. The nightclub was in Karada, an affluent area in central Baghdad.

Past the entryway, Judd could see tables and customers and a large, high-ceilinged room decorated with chrome, leather, and fake leopard skin. The noise of many voices, clinking glassware, and chairs scraping across the terra-cotta floor was bruisingly loud.

“Are you packing?” The young man wore tight jeans and an even tighter T-shirt. In one hand he held a walkie-talkie, the omnipresent sign of authority in Baghdad. He spoke to them in Arabic. “If you are, you have to check it.” He waved a ticket. “We’ll take good care of it and return it when you leave.”

Judd simply nodded and handed over his Beretta and a fifty-dollar bill.

“Ohhhh, I’ll take very good care of it, sir,” the youth crooned. He gave Judd a ticket.

Bosa had said nothing, but Judd could feel disapproval radiating from his pores. Finally he handed his Walther to the young man. “I’ll kill you if it’s not waiting for me undamaged and unused.”

“I’m sure you will, sir,” the youth replied. “But then everyone else will kill me, too, if I don’t have their guns for them. There won’t be much of me left. I lead a very dangerous life.” He turned and opened a narrow door. Inside were wall hooks holding an array of weapons.

A middle-aged man walked toward them from inside the nightclub. Muscular, he had an oval face and a cropped brown beard. His eyes were sunk deep in dark hollows. “No, Imad,” he told the youth. “These are my guests. Give them back their toys.” He smiled at Judd and Bosa and introduced himself. “I’m Mahmoud Issa.”

“Yes, sir.” And that was that. The young man returned the Beretta and the Walther. Reluctantly he offered Judd the fifty-dollar bill.

Judd waved him off.

“Thank you, sir!” He beamed.

Mahmoud led them into the nightclub, and they skirted the room. The patrons were mostly men. The few women wore head scarves. The tables were piled high with food, the spicy aroma enticing. Waiters in black button-down shirts and shiny black suits took orders and carried trays.

With Mahmoud in the lead, they climbed stairs and paused at the top where a wide balcony overlooked the dining area. Mahmoud studied the patrons below, his head moving every time someone new entered. At last he lit a Gauloise cigarette. “We’re religious here in Iraq now—no alcohol, no pop music, no pornography, but smoking is tolerated. I’d been watching for you on our security cameras. Did you see anyone following?”

“No,” Judd told him.

Giving a nod of approval, he tapped on a door. There was no door handle, no apparent way to open the door. “This is where our security gets closely controlled.”

The door was opened by a man the size and shape of a side-by-side refrigerator. Inclining his head to show respect, the man stepped back.

Mahmoud gestured, and they walked into a softly lit room. Tiles painted in stunning mosaics covered the floor and climbed halfway up the walls. Tall narrow bureaus appeared to be made of mirrors, reflecting the rich furnishings and the men and beautiful women there.

While all the men appeared to be Arab, the women were black-, brown-, and white-skinned. There were brunettes and redheads and one blonde, all dressed in sheer, flowing
abayas,
their nipples and pubic hair on display through the silvery see-through fabric. The women served drinks, filled hookah pipes, and sat with their arms wrapped around the men, who were dressed in desert robes, business suits, or suede sports coats and baggy jeans.

“You’re religious?” Judd asked. “Are my eyes lying, or is this a—”

“A very high-class whorehouse.” Mahmoud laughed. “This part of my establishment obviously isn’t religious, but it’s high-security and safe for intimate gatherings.”

“You work for al-Sabah?” Judd wanted to be sure.

“Yes.” Mahmoud opened another door and invited them into a silent room with paneled walls and leather furniture, a masculine room.

“My office,” Mahmoud said. “Please sit. Relax. Chivas Regal? This is the hour I indulge myself. You could say it’s my daily ritual.”

To their right were two heavy leather sofas facing each other, a chrome coffee table between.

Bosa lowered himself on the more distant of the two sofas, facing them. “I’ll have a double.” He set his Walther on his thigh, his hand gripping the hilt.

Judd sat beside him. “Double for me, too.” He also took out his pistol, but in his palm was what appeared to be a tiny memory stick. They had stopped to buy it at a crowded market in the Sadriya district. It was a miniature digital movie camera that was motion- and voice-activated and both saved the movie and sent it wirelessly. Judd had set up a new Yahoo account to receive it. Hidden between his hand and his weapon, the recording end was pointed at Mahmoud. He could feel Bosa watching.

Glancing at their pistols, Mahmoud walked behind the other sofa where they had seen a cabinet. He stood facing them. There was a crystal decanter on top of the cabinet. The decanter’s facets reflected the light in a rainbow of colors.

Mahmoud put out his cigarette and picked up the decanter. “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. I’ve worked for al-Sabah for years. It’s thanks to him that I could afford to create all of this.” He nodded around him. “He pays well, and I held on to my money.”

“Why do you want to leave al-Sabah?” Bosa asked.

Mahmoud studied Bosa. “You are?”

“Alex Bosa,” the Carnivore told him. “A friend of Judd’s.”

Mahmoud focused on Judd. “And you’re a friend of Hilu’s.”

“Yes. Tell us why you want out.”

“Because al-Sabah has gone too far,” Mahmoud said. “I began working for him when I was young and angry and wanted to help my country. Now I’m older, and I’m a husband, father, and businessman. I see the bad place all of the violence has taken us. I want to grow my country, not destroy it. People here are all the time talking about the historic tension between Iraqi Shiites and Iranian Shiites, but Iran is trying to change that attitude, and al-Sabah and Tabrizi are helping to front a lot of it with bribes, blackmail, and ideology. It’s obvious Iran is the rising power in the Gulf states, and the United States and Saudi Arabia don’t have an easy counter for that. So, it doesn’t matter how we Iraqis feel about Iran. Resisting Iran is going to be dangerous.”

His face glum, Mahmoud removed the stopper of the decanter and poured the blended scotch into three rocks glasses. “What finally made up my mind is al-Sabah had one of my oldest friends killed just because he fell in love with a girl whose father works for the opposition—for the prime minister.” Two angry spots appeared on his cheeks above his beard. “When al-Sabah ordered it, I shot Jalal.” His lips thinned, and anguish crossed his face. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. “Few people know what I’m about to tell you. It’s not only al-Sabah, but it’s also his wife, Zahra, and Tariq Tabrizi. Of the three, al-Sabah is the brains. He does the negotiating and back-room politicking. Zahra is the organizer. She goes undercover and works with militants and insurgents to arrange attacks. And Tabrizi has the fortune that they’ve been using to buy our country. Tabrizi makes speeches and appearances. And it’s all for one goal—they’re determined to join Iraq and Iran into one nation. They’re calling it the Union of Shiite States.”

“Holy shit.” Judd sat up straight. “Are you certain about this?”

“Yes. I’ve driven al-Sabah and Tabrizi to meetings with the Iranian mullahs. It seemed to me something big was happening, so I dug around. They’re working with the mullahs to integrate Iraq with Iran.” Mahmoud handed the drinks to Judd and Bosa. Taking a long swallow of his own, he described a joint constitution and steps for the two countries to integrate. “Al-Sabah is planning an attack, a massively destructive one that will force Iraqis to accept that the current prime minister has failed to stop the violence. With this one stroke, al-Sabah believes—and I think he’s right—that the MPs will have to elect Tabrizi to be the next prime minister. Once that happens, Tabrizi and al-Sabah will use their money and political power to deliver Iraq into Iran’s arms, and Iran will never let us go. You’re an American, Judd Ryder. Tell the CIA about this. Tell the CIA to stop them, because I don’t think our government can.”

“When is the attack?” Judd asked. “I need all the details.”

“It’s tonight.” As if for emphasis, Mahmoud jammed the stopper back into the crystal decanter.

The force of his action made the decanter shudder. Before he could say more, there was a tremendous roar. The cabinet beneath the decanter exploded. His body lifted and ripped apart. Stuffing and framework erupted from the sofa, and the frame bent and slammed against the chrome coffee table, and the coffee table crashed into Judd’s and Bosa’s legs, pinning them.

In a hidden place in his mind, Judd realized all of this had happened. Then he lost consciousness.

75

“It looks like the bloody devil came through here and laid his dirty paws on everything in Baghdad,” Morgan rumbled, staring through the windshield. “This used to be a garden city. Beautiful architecture and unique brickwork. Fine houses with patios and courtyards and roof terraces. Now it’s all security checkpoints, blast walls, and barbed wire.”

“A lot of bullet holes in buildings, too,” Eva said. “Watch it—they’re turning.”

The two men they had followed from the airport were driving a big black Hummer H3. It had been easy to see even at a distance on the highway, but now that they were in the city, it was squeezed in among other vehicles. Many were new—Land Cruisers, Pajeros, Beemers, and Jaguars. The city was dangerous, but it was not poor.

Honking his horn, Morgan nosed between a battered Cadillac and a new Peugeot. The Hummer was three cars ahead but in the same lane. It turned right. The two cars that followed drove straight ahead, and Morgan turned their Ford Explorer right, too.

*   *   *

Karar watched the Hummer turn, then the Ford Explorer with the female passenger whose face was on the flyer. Her name was Courtney Roman.

“They’re still following you,” Karar reported to the man driving the Hummer. “Do you see them in your rearview mirror?”

“I see them.”

Baghdad’s traffic was thick. Blood-pressure levels shot sky high. Drivers swore, their arms windmilling with frustration. But Karar had found a solution—a new Yamaha SMAX motor scooter.

Bouncing up over the curb, he drove down the sidewalk, bypassing two pickups and six cars. Young men were playing backgammon at card tables in front of a caf
é
. He whizzed past, kicking up dust and gravel. They yelled and shook their fists. He turned the corner. There were only a dozen cars on the street. The Hummer was going slowly, as if the driver and passenger did not have a worry in the world, making sure the Ford Explorer could follow easily.