The Assassins (The Judd Ryder Books)

by Gayle Lynds

  As Bosa drove into the street, Judd opened his disposable smartphone and called up his e-mail program. There it was—the e-mail with the attachment of the audio-video of Mahmoud.

  “Did you get it?” Bosa wanted to know.

  “It arrived. I’ll tell you in a minute if I can download it.” He opened the attachment, and on his phone’s digital screen appeared Mahmoud, putting out his cigarette and picking up the decanter.

  “Are you going to tell me what Mahmoud said?” Hilu asked impatiently.

  “I’ll let him tell you himself.” Judd handed the smartphone to Hilu.

  The dead man’s voice filled the SUV: “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.…”

  Judd looked back. Hilu was silent, his eyes moist. The hand holding the phone trembled as he listened to Mahmoud talk about al-Sabah, Zahra, Tabrizi, and their plot with the Iranian mullahs. Finally the bomb exploded. The noise seemed to send shock waves through the car.

  Hilu let out a long stream of air and handed the phone forward to Judd.

  “Poor Mahmoud,” Hilu said. “It’s good you’ve got this recording. It’s his testimony, isn’t it? I always thought Tabrizi wanted to make us into a Little Iran. What they’re doing scares the spit out of me. Think of the people they’ve killed to get to this point!”

  Bosa pulled the SUV to the curb. Sitting in the shadows, they spent the next half hour phoning people to alert them about the forthcoming attack.

  The first person Judd called was Kari Timonen, CIA station chief in Baghdad. “Is the attack coming from land, sea, or air, Judd?” Timonen’s tone dripped sarcasm.

  “I don’t know,” Judd admitted.

  “So let’s make sure I understand what you’re saying.… An Iraqi strong-arm told you that one of the country’s most respected politicians is planning a terrorist attack on an unnamed target, but there’s no way to back up the information because your source is dead. Is this like the massacre at the hunt club in Maryland that you say you witnessed? The massacre that there’s absolutely no trace of? Come on, Judd. No one who knows your background is going to believe you.”

  Judd had a sinking feeling Timonen was right.

  “How about you drop by for a visit?” the CIA man suggested. “I’ve got an order to tag and ship you back to Langley.”

  Judd hung up. He thought about it then dialed his military intelligence contact. When the response was the same from him, Judd phoned an undercover FBI man who was working out of the U.S. Embassy.

  Finally he lowered his phone. “I’m getting nowhere,” he told Bosa and Hilu.

  “I’ve notified my contacts,” Bosa said. “Perhaps they’ll be able to track down what the target is.”

  “Contacts as in former employers?” Judd asked.

  Bosa shrugged.

  “I couldn’t get through to Prime Minister al-Lami,” Hilu reported from the rear seat. “I left messages with his secretary and his assistant. I’ve tried the army and the Baghdad police, but they get so many warnings and threats that they just added mine to the piles.” He sighed worriedly. “I was going to phone a few of my relatives, but word might get back to al-Sabah. Two of them work for him.”

  Bosa ignited the SUV’s engine and drove into the street, joining the traffic. “We’ve got to find al-Sabah.”

  “That I can do,” Hilu said.

  Judd and Bosa sat silently, listening to the Iraqi make more calls.

  “I’ve got him,” Hilu told them at last. “There’s a big gala at the Iraq National Museum tonight to celebrate the election of the new MPs. It’s a fund-raiser for the museum, too. It starts at eight o’clock. Of course Tabrizi and al-Sabah will be there—it’s too important for them to miss—and Tabrizi is supposed to speak. You guys want to get into the museum?”

  “Yes,” Bosa said. “I’ll need a wheelchair. Al-Sabah and I worked together just enough that he might be able to recognize me by my walk.”

  Hilu exhaled. “You worked with al-Sabah. Who are you really, Mr. Bosa?”

  “For you, a friend. Can you arrange passes, disguises, whatever else we need?”

  “Consider it done.” Hilu dialed out again.

  “I’m calling Eva,” Judd said. “We haven’t heard from her or Morgan since she left the message saying they were following a Hummer.” He tapped the number of her disposable phone.

  A small voice answered, a little boy. Frowning, Judd passed the phone to Bosa. “It’s not her. It’s a kid, and I’m not good translating kid accents.”

  “A-salaamu aleekum,” Bosa said into the cell phone. He continued in Arabic: “Let me speak to the lady who owns the phone.” There was a pause. “Then I’d like to talk to your mother. All right, your aunt.” He glanced at Judd and nodded, indicating the aunt was coming to the phone. “Can you tell me where the lady is who owns the phone you’re using?” He paused, listening. “No. Yes. Thank you.” Hitting the STOP button, he took out his cell phone.

  In the silence, they could hear Hilu’s low voice talking on his phone in the backseat, making arrangements.

  Soon Bosa’s cell phone rang. “Yes, it’s me again. Thank you. Of course, keep both phones.”

  “Are Eva and Morgan missing?” Judd asked, his throat tight with concern.

  Bosa nodded and closed his eyes. “Apparently so, otherwise they would’ve let us know they were going off the grid. Unbefuckinglievable. Morgan is getting old.” His eyes snapped open. “The aunt and nephew were shopping at the open-air market outside Abu Hanifa Mosque. The kid found two smartphones under a fruit stand. The phones are scratched up pretty bad from hitting the cobblestones. Whoever grabbed Morgan and Eva dumped their cells in case we had the ability to trace them.” He heaved a sigh. “I just hope they’re still alive.”

  Judd was silent, feeling a cold wash of fear for Eva.

  “I should’ve been a general,” Hilu announced brightly behind them. “I’ve just orchestrated a magnificent campaign to get us inside the museum compound. We’re going to have to change both of your appearances, but I’m hopeful we can make this work.”

  78

  The river reeked, stinging Eva’s nose. Garbage bobbed on the surface, visible in the light of the moon and the bright mercury vapor lights of a refinery near the beach. She was seated on the deck of a yacht near the bow, her back to a metal post bolted to the wood planking. Her hands were bound tightly behind the post. She struggled against them. The ribs on her right side ached. Inwardly she cursed.

  “We should’ve disconnected the SUV’s bloody air bags.” Morgan was tied to a post six feet away from her. His cadaverous face was gray in the light.

  “This is a new experience I would’ve happily skipped.” She twisted her wrists, hoping the rope would loosen, but all she accomplished was giving herself rope burn and a sharp pain in the ribs.

  Repressing the discomfort, she studied the riverbank. It was not moving, which meant the yacht was probably anchored. Judging from the gradual flow of the refuse and the location of the moon, the river was running west to east here. Downriver, a bridge carried traffic across to the greatest glow of light in the night sky—the city’s center, to the north. Other than the refinery, she could see no other lights near them.

  The six Iraqi men onboard were making such a racket that the bank along this portion of the river must be as isolated as it was dark. Three were opening wood crates on the deck with pry bars, hammers, and axes, and unpacking them quickly and noisily. Metal parts thudded and clanked as they landed on the deck. Eva wondered why the men had bothered to dress in dark clothing; anyone close enough to see them would hear them first.

  One man handed small crates up onto the deck from the dory that had delivered Eva and Morgan to the yacht. Two men wrestled with what looked to Eva like an enormous sewage pipe, perhaps six feet long.

  She had an unobstructed view of the Iraqis’ operation because the deck between her and them was
open and empty, no masts or superstructure except for the wheelhouse toward the stern. When they had arrived, there had been a dozen small tables, stackable chairs, and benches. While some of the men opened crates, others had quickly pushed the furniture to both sides of the deck.

  “A party boat,” Morgan had explained.

  The crates emptied, the men broke into two groups of three and began assembling some kind of equipment.

  “What are they doing?” Eva asked.

  “See those long tubes? Looks to me as if the Iraqis are setting up mortars. If I’m right, they’re huge, the kind you have to tow behind a truck.”

  Moments later, the three at one of the positions joined the other team and lifted a tube into a nearly vertical position. It was taller than the tallest of the men holding it, close to seven feet. While they stabilized it, the others secured parts to its side and base. Once the gun was up, they went to work at the other site.

  “So you’re a munitions expert now,” Eva said. “I thought you only slit people’s throats.”

  “I slit the throats of the disrespectful, so remember that.” He was silent for a moment, perhaps mulling over Eva’s sarcasm. “Let’s just say I’ve made mortars a hobby and found them useful. The ones here look like 150- or 160-millimeter.”

  Once again the Iraqi men split up; some headed back to their individual guns while others returned to the unopened crates. As the men broke open the crates, Eva could see more cylinders, this time smaller—and they had fins. The men carried them to the mortar positions and stacked them.

  “Strix smart rounds,” Morgan told her. “The Swedes make them. Once they’re aloft, their fins move to correct their trajectory. They can be laser- or GPS-directed. They’re nasty, powerful things.”

  “What’s their range?” Eva said nervously.

  “Seven miles in neutral air—that means no wind. Normally each round carries thirty-two bomblets. If these are the new Iranian mortars, they can launch up to eight rounds a minute. That’s faster than a sneeze. It’ll be bloody rough on the receiving end.”

  “Have they said what they’re shooting at?” She was frustrated because she understood so little Arabic.

  “They aren’t talking much. They seem to know exactly what to do, and they just do it. They’ve finished the mechanical assembly. They’re moving on to what looks like the electronics. You can see a computer screen glowing at the base of each mortar.” A minute passed. “One of them mentioned an embassy, but didn’t name it.”

  “The direction of the tubes looks as if they’re aiming into the city, doesn’t it?”

  “Crap. One of them just said the target was the U.S. Embassy.”

  “Oh, God, no!”

  Morgan’s expression was grim. “Have you seen the embassy?” When she shook her head, he said, “Never accuse a Yank of being modest. It’s a heavily fortified compound the size of Vatican City. It’s got high walls, guard towers, machine-gun emplacements, rings of security, and doors like bank vaults. There are more than twenty buildings, including apartments, a couple of gyms and swimming pools, shops, bars, restaurants, offices, meeting rooms, and its own power station and water- and waste-treatment facilities. If that sounds like the most expensive and largest and most secured embassy the world’s ever seen, it’s because it is.”

  “You think the mortars are big enough to do serious damage?”

  He stared at her. “There are something like fifteen thousand people there, all crammed into one and a half square miles, and those mortars are serious enough to cut through heavy steel like it’s butter. What do you think?”

  “I think we’d better damn well do something!”

  79

  Bright with light, the vast exhibit hall in the National Museum of Iraq was filling with people. It was a very different scene from the one in 2003 when the six assassins broke in to steal the cuneiform tablet. The hall had rung with emptiness then, and the only illumination had been moonlight filtering down through high windows, barely touching the gloom. Looting had left display cases and shelves smashed and empty.

  Tonight, that terrible time was nowhere in evidence. Ancient statues stood on marble pedestals, showcases displayed important artifacts, and glass shelves presented exhibits chronicling the illustrious history of Mesopotamia. Many of the guests were members of the Iraqi parliament and their spouses. There were also museum officials and local dignitaries. The third contingent was foreigners.

  The scent of expensive perfumes drifted toward where Judd, Bosa, and Hilu stood in line, waiting to be allowed through the guards’ checkpoint. They had already been inspected by backscatter X-rays to detect hidden weapons and explosives. To be unarmed made Judd more than a little uneasy. He scanned, hoping for an opportunity to relieve one of the guards of his gun.

  At last they reached the front of the line, where a young sentry stood with a clipboard and a felt-tip pen.

  “Si, yes. It is all true.” Wearing a curly white-gray wig and gesturing with a conductor’s flamboyance, Bosa peered up from his wheelchair at the museum security guard and lifted his VIP badge so the young man could more easily read it. “You are very handsome, Signore Guard. Do you sing?” With prosthetic inserts to widen his nose and makeup to tan his face and hands, Bosa was transformed into a nonexistent person: René San Martino, Italian maestro. “As Hilu told you, I am general manager of the Italian-American Heritage Chorus—”

  “Shukraan, Mr. San Martino.” Thanks. He checked off San Martino’s name on a clipboard and turned to Judd. “And you are, sir?”

  “I’m the American manager of the Italian-American Heritage Chorus,” Judd lied. His light brown hair had been shaved off completely—he was bald. His eyebrows were dyed black, his hazel eyes darkened with contact lenses, and his mouth widened and enlarged with prostheses. “Brad Chastain, at your service, from Philly. We’re hoping to—”

  “Shukraan, Mr. Chastain.” The guard found Judd’s cover name, checked it off, and gestured to Hilu, who was on the manifest as their official escort. “You can go in.” He beckoned to the next guests in line to step forward.

  With Hilu pushing Bosa’s wheelchair, they moved into the exhibit hall. Judd heard at least four different languages and, of course, Sunni and Shiite accents. The place was packed, the noise a rush of excitement.

  Judd studied the layout. A temporary stage had been erected at the far end of the room. Halfway there, on facing walls, hung large screens to televise the speeches so those who were distant could have close-up and personal views. Audio speakers were fastened discreetly high in the corners. At the moment, they were softly playing Arab music.

  Bosa was glancing across the room. “Hilu, do you see the small blonde woman to our right?” She appeared to be in her late fifties, an attractive woman with a round figure, turned-up nose, and blue eyes. She was chatting with two Iraqi women. “There’s something familiar about her. Who is she?” Bosa asked.

  “She’s al-Sabah’s wife,” Hilu said. “Her name is Zahra. Very popular among the women. Usually she’s veiled. The only times I see her without one is at an event like this.”

  “Zahra,” Judd repeated. “In English, that’s ‘Rose.’”

  “In Russian, it’s ‘Roza,’” Bosa said. “I’ll be damned. She’s Roza Levinchev—Katia’s mother. I recognize her from the old days.”

  For a moment, Judd and Bosa were silent.

  “All three of them must’ve been here in Baghdad,” Judd said. “Seymour, Roza, and Grigori. Why didn’t they tell Katia?”

  “Roza apparently wanted her daughter to think she was dead,” Bosa said. “Other than that, you’d have to ask her.”

  “And now she’s Zahra, Seymour’s wife.” Judd shook his head.

  “Let’s follow her around, Hilu,” Bosa said. “She’ll lead us to him.”

  They angled to the right, always keeping Zahra in view as she greeted women friends. She chatted, she laughed, she touched their arms.

  The crowd opened enough that they could see
Tariq Tabrizi making his way toward a stage that had been erected at the other end of the room.

  “Stop here,” Bosa said.

  Judd saw he was studying Tabrizi.

  “Now I understand why Morgan was interested in Tabrizi when we were watching the videos of him and Seymour on the plane,” Bosa said. “Seeing Tabrizi is like looking at a ghost.”

  “What do you mean?” Judd asked.

  Bosa crooked a finger, and Judd and Hilu crouched together beside the wheelchair.

  Bosa leaned close. “Hilu, listen while I talk to Judd.” Then to Judd: “Remember how this whole mess started with Saddam when he hired a major financier to hide his fortune?” It was a rhetorical question, because he continued without waiting for Judd to answer: “The financier divided the money into six sections and hired five more financiers. Each stashed their portion. Only Saddam and the head financier knew where all of the parts were. So Saddam hired Morgan to put together a team of six assassins, each to eliminate one of the moneymen. Morgan can be an obliging sort, so when Seymour asked that his target be the top financier, Morgan agreed. Afterward, everyone reported their wet jobs were successful. Then when Saddam was executed, no one could find the bulk of his money. It was believed the information died with him.”

  “It’s not Saddam’s money,” Hilu corrected angrily. “Many billions are still missing, and they belong to the people of Iraq.”

  “True,” Bosa said. “In any case, the money isn’t missing now. Tariq Tabrizi can tell you where it is. Every dirham, every penny, every euro. All of it.”

  Judd frowned. “What are you saying?”

  “Tabrizi is the London financier who was responsible for hiding Saddam’s money,” Bosa explained. “His real name is Toma Asker—Professor Toma Asker. He was one of the highest-flying, most successful moneymakers and managers in Europe. Instead of erasing him, my guess is Seymour helped him to vanish because there was something in it for him—probably money and maybe the political arrangement we’re seeing now between them.”

  “Tabrizi is trying to buy a new job for himself—prime minister of Iraq,” Hilu said.