The Assassins (41 page)

“It’s Judd Ryder. Just listen. I’m in Baghdad and the American embassy is about to be attacked by mortar.”

“Whoa, Judd.” Bash’s voice was strong. “You need to talk to Gloria. She’s tied up right now, but I’ll make sure she phones you back right away.”

The line went dead.

Controlling his frustration, Judd scanned this part of the museum grounds. When they had arrived, he had noted several security guards patrolling outside. All wore small arms on their hips. A few also carried carbines. Making certain his phone was still on vibrate, he slipped it inside his jacket and studied the classic buildings, the sandstone walls and turrets, the walkways. The complex spread across eleven city acres. There were two guards who seemed to have been assigned to patrol along this stretch.

As he timed the men, his phone finally vibrated.

“Judd Ryder, where exactly are you?” Gloria demanded.

“In Baghdad, the Iraq National Museum. There’s going to be a mortar attack on our embassy here—”

“We know. I got a call from Eva Blake, and we’ve alerted everyone there. What are you and Eva doing in Baghdad?”

“It’s too complicated to explain now. Where’s Eva?”

“She was on a yacht in the Tigris. That’s where the mortars are being launched. We’ve located the boat and turned the information over to the Iraqis. When she and I finished talking, she was going to swim for shore.” Gloria tried to sound reassuring. “I doubt she’s in danger.”

“I hope you’re right.”

They said hurried good-byes.

Staying in the alcove’s shadow, Judd resumed assessing the two sentries. One was about to pass him again. He was a middle-aged man with a calm demeanor, a solid man.

Judd ran from the building and rammed a fist into the sentry’s solar plexus, right over his heart. The man inhaled sharply. The blow had made the man’s heart skip a beat and shocked his cardiovascular system.

Before the man could recover, Judd pelted his kidneys then used both hands to slam his head sideways into the ground. It was over in seconds. Judd dragged the unconscious man back into the shadows and relieved him of his pistol.

Pressing back against the wall again, he waited for the second sentry.

86

The museum patio was rimmed by a lush bed of flowers, and the grounds were raked and swept, very different from the war zone of 2003 that the Carnivore remembered. Now that he had manipulated Seymour to where he wanted him, he felt himself adjust, leaving behind the persona of San Martino and his usual cover identity, Alex Bosa. With relief, he returned to himself: The Carnivore. Unique, arrogant in the ways of those who were usually right and able to enforce that right even when wrong. And angry. He had an old, deep anger that seethed just beneath his skin. He knew these things about himself, and he no longer made an effort to change them. For him, age was a respite from the demons of the past, when he had wanted nothing more than to be a hero.

The Carnivore focused. He had Seymour to deal with. With a dramatic sweep of his hand, he held out one of the glass cylinders that contained a cigar. “With pleasure, I present you with a gem from the New World.”

Al-Sabah was sitting on a garden bench, and the Carnivore was in his wheelchair at a ninety-degree angle to him. At their knees was a low stone table.

Al-Sabah took the cylinder and regarded the cigar admiringly. Then he removed the wax, put the open end to his nose, and inhaled deeply. Taking it from its case, he smelled the cigar along its length. “Some art is permanent, and some art lives briefly, like ballet and music and an exceptional cigar. All are important to be savored in the moment.”

“Yes. This is our moment.” The Carnivore offered him a clipper.

Al-Sabah rolled the cigar next to his ear, listening to the fine tobacco, then he snipped the end. The Carnivore offered him a box of matches, and he lit the cigar. A look of deep pleasure crossed his face as he inhaled.

The Carnivore lit his own cigar. The aroma and taste thrilled him.

“I’m in your debt,” al-Sabah said. “This is a remarkable smoke.”

There was the sound of footsteps. They turned.

“I thought you might be hungry,” Judd told them. “I brought food from the buffet.”

Judd exchanged a quick look with the Carnivore then with Hilu. Hilu took two plates off the tray and set them on the table between the Carnivore and al-Sabah. The plates were piled with colorful arrays of cheeses, breads, and saucers of herb-infused olive oil.

“These are Ren
é
’s medications.” Judd picked up the last item on the tray—a plate with a warming cover. He set the covered dish on the Carnivore’s lap.

The Carnivore stared for a second then understood. Staying in the San Martino character, he laughed and clapped his hands with amusement. “Trying to render an old man’s medication elegant is as futile as putting earrings on a mule.”

The Carnivore was enjoying himself, not just the cigar, but that al-Sabah—Seymour—had not yet made him. He smiled at al-Sabah. “I have a friend who’s received a message from an unknown source. He’s asked me to determine whether you might know who the source is.”

The Carnivore smoked. But as he watched Seymour’s black eyes, he sensed a subtle change.

“And your friend is?” Seymour asked.

The Carnivore ignored the question. “He tells me the last time he saw you was more than a decade ago here, on these grounds, at the time of the invasion.”

Seymour put his cigar in his mouth and inhaled. His good humor had disappeared. His broad bearded face was blank, his gaze cold. The Carnivore could feel menace radiate from him. At the same time, Seymour seemed to be trying to assess how much to reveal, how much immediate danger “San Martino” represented.

Seymour exhaled smoke. “What was the subject of this message?”

“The subject was an archaeological treasure—a cuneiform tablet, I’m told.”

Seymour got to his feet. “I know of no message about any such object. Your friend is mistaken.”

The Carnivore looked up. “Alas. My friend is certain he’s right because, he tells me, you and he are the only ones left, and so it can’t have come from him.”

Seymour frowned. Understanding came into his eyes.

The Carnivore snatched up the dome from the plate on his lap, grabbed the 9-mm Browning, and aimed it at Seymour.

Seymour blinked slowly, hiding his surprise.

“Judd,” the Carnivore said, “Seymour’s bodyguard.”

But Judd was already moving toward the door where the bodyguard stood. At the moment, the Carnivore’s body shielded the gun from the bodyguard’s view, but that would not last.

“Hilu,” the Carnivore said, “you should take the bodyguard’s weapon for yourself.”

Hilu nodded and ran after Judd.

His gaze on the Carnivore’s Beretta, Seymour took a step back and was ready to take another.

“Stop.” When Seymour settled down, the Carnivore kept his voice neutral as he said, “Excuse me, you and
I
are the only ones left.”

Suddenly Seymour threw back his head and laughed. Then he studied the Carnivore. A calculating look crossed his face. He gestured at the wheelchair. “Are you really crippled, or is this one of your tricks?”

*   *   *

Eva was exhausted. Dripping water, she ran into a palm grove and dropped behind a tree. She looked back at the yacht just in time to see a giant burst from the stern mortar. A blinding streak of light shot above the yacht, and a thunderous noise reverberated along the river.

On the northern horizon, a great fiery ball of light and smoke billowed up. The noise of the explosion sounded like a distant bomb. The mortar had launched a shell, and it had hit something big. Judging by what she could see of where it landed, it was one of the U.S. Embassy buildings. With a sick feeling, she watched a second mortar launch.

87

As he had done with the two outdoor sentries, Judd surprised Seymour’s bodyguard, who was glancing occasionally over to where his boss was talking. The man had a strong, youthful face, but his half-closed eyes said he was bored.

Putting on a disarming smile, Judd walked up to him and slammed a fist into his solar plexus. As the man gasped, Judd chopped the side of his throat, interrupting the blood flow for a few vital seconds. He caught the unconscious man before he hit the ground and dragged his body behind a bush.

Hilu had been watching. “You are a scary dude, Judd. You go around building free elementary schools, and then you knock out people. What am I to think?”

“In this case, don’t think.” Judd handed him the guard’s pistol.

A bright flash erupted in the sky to the south followed by the booming sound of a great explosion.

Hilu shook a fist at the cloud rising above the lights of the city. “The big attack has started!” he bellowed. “We’ve got to tell everyone the truth about al-Sabah and Tabrizi!” He ran to the museum door.

Judd sprinted and caught his arm. “Wait. You want to expose them, but let’s do it in a way we’ll be believed. Put your gun in your pocket. Follow me.” Judd slid his Beretta inside his belt under his jacket.

Another shell exploded, shaking the night. They stepped inside the exhibit hall. People were running to the windows to peer out. Their faces were ashen. Tabrizi was speaking, his voice full and resounding, while his image was magnified on the screens high on either side of the room: “I’ve just been told that the U.S. Embassy is being shelled, and it’s the Sunnis doing it. It’s always the Sunnis trying to intimidate us, to frighten us so we won’t vote and they can take us back to the days of Saddam. They’ll do anything—kill anyone—to control the government again—”

Leading Hilu, Judd pushed through the crowd then paused at the banquet table, where he picked up a plate of sugared figs. He took off again, heading to the rear of the hall.

Tabrizi was still talking, and the crowd had turned back from the windows to listen: “The prime minister is well intentioned, but he can’t control or stop the violence. The very fact that the Sunnis would shell the Americans so boldly shows how far they’ll go to get what they want. In international law, attacking a foreign embassy is an act of war. Are the Sunnis daring the Americans to invade us again, or are they living in the past and creating violence that has no purpose in the present? If you vote for me, I’ll protect our country from anyone who would hurt you!”

*   *   *

On the patio outside the museum, the Carnivore glanced to the side. A third bright flash erupted in the southern sky followed by the sound of another shelling. “Your mortars look to be on target, Seymour. Congratulations. You always did like to kill in large groups.” The Carnivore rose easily from the wheelchair.

Seymour watched him. “Damn.”

“Yes. Bad luck for you. I’m not crippled. In fact, you and I are going to take a walk. Turn around and put your hands behind your back. Keep them there so I can see them, and go down the steps and turn left.”

Seymour did not move. “What do you want?”

“Not your life, at least not yet. Do what I tell you, or I’ll reevaluate that.”

Seymour hesitated then turned, clasped his hands behind him, and walked down stone steps and onto a stone path.

More flashes. More explosions.

When they were beyond the view of the patio, the Carnivore ordered, “Stop. Lean forward and raise your hands up high.”

Seymour started to separate his hands.

The Carnivore corrected him: “Keep your hands clasped. Lean over more.”

Seymour muttered something under his breath, but he did as he was told. He looked like a swimmer on the starting block, bent forward, arms back.

The Carnivore lifted the rear flap of Seymour’s jacket, revealing a pistol. He took it then checked the rest of his body. Only the one weapon. “You can straighten up, but keep your hands where they are.”

Seymour complied.

They resumed walking. Rounding the corner of an adjacent building, they entered one of the museum’s narrow streets. Here they were completely out of sight of anyone in the exhibit hall or on the patio.

“You asked what I wanted,” the Carnivore told him. “I want those records you’re threatening to send to news outlets and blogs. I want
The Assassins’ Catalog
.”

*   *   *

In the palm grove on the river’s southern shore, Eva watched in horror the burning balls of flame and smoke above the U.S. Embassy. Then she heard a new noise. It was a high-pitched chopping whine. Low on the horizon, three dark smudges grew larger and louder. Apache helicopters. Suddenly streaks of yellow-white light shot out from them. Heat-seeking missiles, she guessed. The heat from the mortars would be a magnet.

Before she could take a breath, the yacht burst like a boil, spurting up flames, pieces of wood, and ragged chunks of metal. Blazing debris fell from the sky, hitting the river and the bank and pelting the palm fronds over her head.

“Morgan!” she shouted. “Morgan!” She held herself tightly, knowing the awful truth—there was no way anyone could survive the inferno burning on the river.

*   *   *

In the museum, Judd opened the door to the audiovisual control room, where the tech was working at a broad console of flashing lights and digital readouts. He and Hilu stepped inside, Hilu closing the door behind them.

The AV man turned from peering out through the small window that overlooked the party. He lifted his earphones and glanced at the sugared figs.

Handing the plate to him, Judd said in Arabic, “We thought you might be hungry.”

With a nod, the tech stuffed two figs into his mouth.

Judd took out the memory stick he had used in the afternoon to record Mahmoud, the bar owner who had died when his office was bombed. “We need you to broadcast this through your AV system.”

Hilu made a sound of pleasure deep in his throat. “Oh, this is good, Judd. I like this very much.”

But the technician shook his head. “I can’t do it. You’re not on the schedule.”

With a sigh, Judd pulled out his Beretta.
“Play it.”

88

Along with others standing at the windows, Zahra had been watching the attack. After all the work, all the planning, she savored the bursts of fire, the billowing smoke. When the shelling stopped too soon, she suspected something had happened, perhaps the authorities had found and destroyed the yacht. That had always been a possibility.