The Assassin

by Andrew Britton

  Izzat al-Douri and Vanderveen were left alone in the cavernous space on the ground floor. The younger man was still concealed in the shadows.

  The Iraqi leaned back in his seat and lifted his eyes to the gilded ceiling. “How much does he know?”

  “Very little. He believes our efforts are aimed at the military.”

  “Good.”

  “The Americans will learn of this, you know. They are interested in Rashid. It was a mistake to use him in Baghdad. And when they learn…”

  “They may suspect, my friend, but they will never learn. Remember, everything lies on misdirection. We have worked hard to plant the seeds of uncertainty.”

  Vanderveen nodded absently. “And Kassem?”

  “You believe the reports?”

  “Of course. Who else but the West would take him?”

  “Perhaps you are right.” There was a brief, uncertain pause. “Can he hurt us?”

  “No,” Vanderveen replied. “I’ve already made the call to Washington. An operation has been in the works there for some time, and my contact is now in a position to finish the job. Most of the links have already been severed. Just one remains, and when he dies, there will be nothing left to tie us to Kassem.”

  “Good.”

  “Did he know of your involvement?”

  “No, I always used intermediaries.” Al-Douri deliberated for a long moment. “Arshad is not a true believer. He was always in it for the money. He insisted on thieving from the Americans, even after I warned him against it. I should have taken care of that problem a long time ago. Still, if your man in Washington is as efficient as you say, there is no cause for concern.”

  Vanderveen did not reply. He was not surprised by the other man’s assumption that his U.S. contact was male; like most Islamic extremists, Izzat al-Douri would never believe a woman capable of carrying out such a crucial task.

  “Then we are set to proceed.”

  “Indeed.” A terrible smile eased its way across the Iraqi’s face. “Ahmed? Bring him in.”

  The bodyguard slipped from the room and returned with a second man. Will Vanderveen, still lost in the shadows, carefully appraised the new arrival. He was dressed in a neat double-breasted charcoal suit, which served to conceal his heavy frame. The face was fleshed out, the dark hair fading to gray, but the man’s eyes were his most noticeable feature. They were coal black, and they radiated authority. Vanderveen immediately thought, Internal security, intelligence at the outside.

  His intuition was rewarded a moment later, when al-Douri said, “Mr. Kohl, this is Jalil al-Tikriti. We’ve worked together for many years. Jalil was… shall we say, a prominent figure in the RCC.”

  Vanderveen’s right arm swept into the light. He shook the proffered hand of Tahir Jalil Habbush al-Tikriti, former director of the Iraqi Intelligence Service, currently number sixteen on the U.S. most wanted list. It began to click into place; under al-Tikriti, the IIS had been charged with the creation of front companies in the midnineties, the purpose of which was to acquire missile technology from neighboring states. Now, those same companies — or others like them — could be used to hide incoming funds for the insurgency.

  But there was something more; Vanderveen understood why the older man was reluctant to reveal al-Tikriti’s true capacity in the Baath regime. Years earlier, it had been reported that the former director of the IIS, in conjunction with the Palestinian terrorist Abu Nidal, had taken part in the training of 9/11 hijackers during the summer of 2001. Nidal was later found dead in the Iraqi capital, and a great deal of speculation had cropped up regarding Tahir al-Tikriti’s role in the whole scenario. Regardless of the truth, the Americans would be very interested in hearing what the former Iraqi intelligence director had to say on the matter. However, al-Douri’s caution — if that’s what it was — was clearly misplaced. To these men, William Vanderveen was Erich Kohl, and if Kohl had wanted to betray them, they would already be dead.

  “Comrade Jalil,” al-Douri continued, “was instrumental in the development of the al-Quraysh Hotel in Mosul. As it happens, young Rashid is the new owner.”

  “A wise investment,” Vanderveen said. The other men smiled. “And what has al-Umari actually purchased with this money?”

  Izzat al-Douri flicked his gaze to the shadows, peering into the darkness. “Come into the light, my friend. Men should look into each other’s faces when discussing such matters.”

  “I prefer the view from here. I’ll repeat the question. What happens to the money?”

  The elder Iraqi’s eyes narrowed; he was finding it difficult to restrain his temper in the face of such arrogance. “The money,” he began tersely, “will be divided as follows. Ten million goes to our politicians on the governing council. They are few, but they are powerful, and they are prepared to support our return to power in exchange for offshore accounts and the continued well-being of their families. Five million goes to the Iranian; he is already laying the groundwork in Washington. Another five million goes to the Syrian defense minister, who has agreed to make his contacts with Hezbollah, Hamas, and the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine available to us. As you undoubtedly know, all three groups have offices and substantial support in Damascus. A further thirty million has been set aside to entice them into crossing the border when the time comes. It is the most costly part of the operation… We have never enjoyed good relations with the Syrians, or the groups they sponsor, for that matter. Our freedom here has come at a steep price.”

  “And the rest?”

  A tight smile appeared on the elder Iraqi’s face. “The rest goes to you, my friend. Twenty million U.S. dollars, as agreed. However, I have yet to see justification for such an outrageous sum. Let us not forget that you failed in Baghdad.”

  “The main goal was achieved,” Vanderveen reminded him quietly. “Al-Maliki is no longer in a position to challenge you. Besides, that was done to establish my credentials. You incurred no cost.”

  “And the Iranians?” al-Douri asked. The smile had turned smug. “Is it not true that you failed them as well?”

  Will Vanderveen felt a sliver of cold running down his spine. His face, however, remained impassive.

  Al-Tikriti said, “We know who you are, Mr. Vanderveen. A former U.S. soldier, a traitor to your own people. Surely, a man of your intelligence can see the point… What is to stop you from turning on us?”

  “If you know who I am, then you’ll know that they are not my people. What the West has done to me makes your suffering pale in comparison.”

  Izzat al-Douri’s face tightened in fury, but before he could lash out, Vanderveen continued in a calm, measured voice. “Gentlemen, I have seen copies of the watch lists going back three months, and my name does not appear on any of them. U.S. intelligence believes I am dead, which gives me the ability to move and operate. You, on the other hand, remain two of the most wanted men in Iraq. I failed in Washington because the Iranians insisted on interfering. That will not happen again. I know what needs to be done, and I need no further assistance.”

  Al-Tikriti considered this for a moment, tenting his fingers beneath his chin in a strangely pontifical gesture. “As you know,” he finally said, “this plan is not in its infancy. Arrangements have already been made in Paris… arrangements that could make your work much easier.” He paused. “Of course, the final decision is yours to make.”

  Vanderveen hesitated, then said, “Go on.”

  The former intelligence chief spoke for twenty minutes. When he was done, Vanderveen nodded his agreement, impressed in spite of himself. It was easy to see how al-Tikriti had earned his post; the older man was not bound by the usual limitations of Islamic extremism. In particular, his views on the fairer sex seemed to be far more progressive than those of his peers.

  “I’ll need a point of contact,” Vanderveen said. He proceeded to recite a lengthy string of digits as well as an access code. “You can leave and pick up messages on that line. Obviously, face-to-face meeti
ngs will no longer be possible once we’ve set things in motion.”

  Tahir al-Tikriti nodded once. “I’ll provide you with the number before you leave. Since we’re on the subject, the Jordanian’s successor has offered the use of his people.”

  “I don’t need them. I’ll use the woman, but I’ll arrange everything else myself.”

  “And documents? We can provide—”

  “I have those as well. Let me make myself clear. Anything that connects us is dangerous. The fewer the links, the better off we are.” He paused. “There is one other thing. I understand the need to move immediately, but I expect the first ten million to be deposited in two days’ time. The rest should be delivered once the job is completed in New York. If the plans for the meeting are changed or cancelled completely, I’ll reserve the right to end things there. Agreed?”

  “Agreed. You understand what we are looking for. The goal is to—”

  “The goal is to eliminate the targets you’ve drawn up in the prescribed manner. A simple task — provided the meeting at the UN goes forward.”

  “It will go forward,” al-Tikriti intoned. “I have no doubt of it.”

  “Then our business here is concluded,” al-Douri said. He stood, and though he was looking into the blackness of the room, his pale eyes seemed to be fixed on Vanderveen’s. “With one exception.”

  “Yes,” the younger man said. “With one exception.”

  Rashid al-Umari turned restlessly in a bare room on the second floor. He had not been able to sleep, despite his exhaustion. The skies had opened just after midnight, and though the window was shut and the curtains drawn, the room was filled with the sound of rushing water and the occasional peal of distant thunder.

  A sudden noise drew his gaze to the door. He saw a black silhouette against the light in the hall. Rashid blinked the sleep from his eyes and sat up on the foldout cot. He was not alarmed in the least. In this place, he was on safe ground; he was amongst brothers. “What is it? Kohl…?”

  He saw the gun come up, but it wasn’t real. He recognized the extended barrel of a suppressed weapon, but it couldn’t be real, not after what he had done for them. Mired in disbelief, he didn’t react, but it wouldn’t have mattered.

  The muzzle flashed twice, and Rashid al-Umari tumbled back into permanent night.

  CHAPTER 12

  WASHINGTON, D.C. • VIRGINIA

  A premature winter wind whipped over the tarmac at Dulles International Airport as a Dassault Falcon executive jet taxied in on the 12/30 runway, the same plane having landed less than a minute earlier. Jonathan Harper, leaning against the rear fender of a black GMC Suburban — the only vehicle parked on the apron — brushed a few drops of rain from the sleeves of his Burberry overcoat and watched as the sleek jet rolled to a stop, the twin Pratt & Whitney engines winding down to a gradual halt. The cabin door swung out to the left a few moments later, the stairs came down, and the Falcon’s only passenger appeared in the doorway.

  Harper instantly saw that Ryan Kealey was in rough shape. The lower half of his face was still covered in the thick, matted beard, and lank hair hung past the line of his jaw, further obscuring his features. His lean frame was covered by a pair of tattered khakis and a gray Nike sweatshirt, his rugged Columbia hiking boots still bearing clumps of red brown Iraqi mud. A large military rucksack was thrown over his right shoulder. He didn’t seem to be straining under the load, but there was something about the empty expression on his face that worried the DDO; it was a look that spoke of more than physical exhaustion.

  As Kealey started across the windblown tarmac, Harper considered the events of the previous day. He had personally brought Kealey up to speed when the younger man finally called in, but it had been difficult to gauge his reaction over the static-filled line. If appearances were any indication, though, Kealey was having trouble with the revelation that Vanderveen had finally resurfaced, after almost a year of not knowing whether the man was dead or alive.

  Crossing the last few feet of cement, Kealey shook Harper’s extended hand and offered something approaching a smile.

  “Good to see you, John. I didn’t expect to be met by a man of your stature.”

  “A lot’s been happening. I thought I would fill you in on the ride.”

  Kealey nodded to the vehicle. “I guess your driver is cleared for it.”

  “He’s cleared as high as you are.”

  “Sounds good.” Kealey opened the rear doors and tossed his pack into the cargo area, then made his way to the backseat. Harper went to the passenger side and climbed in front, as was his habit. Once both doors were shut, the driver put the truck into gear.

  Harper handed Kealey a carryout cup of steaming black coffee over the back of the seat. “I thought you could use this,” he said.

  “Thanks. I didn’t get any sleep on the plane.”

  “I can tell. You look like shit.”

  “I’m aware of that,” was the wry response. “I need a shower.”

  “And a haircut,” Harper noted. “You’ll get all of that soon enough. I’ve got you set up at the Hotel Washington.”

  Kealey raised an eyebrow, and Harper caught the gesture. “Yeah, I know. Admittedly, it’s much nicer than what you’d usually get, but I pulled some strings for you. After six months in the desert, I thought you could use some dependable air-conditioning and a comfortable bed. Oh, and Kharmai’s there as well. She’s already checked in.”

  “Naomi,” Kealey said in a flat voice. “What’s she doing here?”

  “We brought her back to work on al-Umari’s finances, among other things. It’s been less than twenty-four hours, but she’s already managed to dig up some interesting information. I’ll let her brief you herself.”

  “Is that where we’re going? The hotel?”

  Harper nodded without turning around, then changed tack. “Anyway, here’s where we stand. As soon as you called in, we started running the names you got from Kassem. Two of them, unfortunately, belong to the recently deceased. Interestingly enough, both men were killed during the same raid on the Syrian border.”

  A skeptical expression came over the younger man’s face. “I suppose that came from—”

  “No.” The DDO had anticipated the response. “That came from the Pentagon, not the Iraqis. It’s been confirmed.”

  Kealey leaned back in his seat and rubbed a hand over his eyes. He couldn’t believe he’d wasted all that time for nothing, but Harper had only accounted for two…. “What about the third?”

  “Well, that’s the thing. The third man on your list, Anthony Mason, is located here.”

  “Here as in the U.S.?”

  “Here as in Washington.”

  Kealey leaned forward in his seat, suddenly interested. “Well, that’s great. Have we picked him up?”

  “No. As soon as the name went into the system, bells started ringing in Landrieu’s office at the NCTC.”

  Kealey grimaced involuntarily. He harbored a strong dislike for Patrick Landrieu, the director of the National Counterterrorism Center, and the feeling was decidedly mutual. They’d had a run-in the previous year, but for Kealey, a petty disagreement was not the issue. He was far more concerned by the fact that the other man had managed to keep his job after a series of major terrorist attacks in the nation’s capital.

  “The problem,” Harper continued, “is that we’re not the only ones with an interest in Mason. For the last three months, he’s been the subject of a joint investigation being run by the Bureau and the ATF. That’s how we knew his location.”

  “You’re kidding me.” Kealey thought back to what Kassem had told him. “They want him for arms trafficking?”

  “Something to that effect. I didn’t get the full picture, but here’s the interesting part. The Bureau’s stepped up their surveillance over the past week, and they already have a warrant.”

  “When are they going in?”

  “Today.”

  Kealey stared at the other man in disbelief. �
�Please tell me you’re joking.”

  Harper shook his head grimly. “I’m afraid not.”

  “They’re doing it today? That’s not interesting, John. That’s… disastrous.” And also far too coincidental, he didn’t say. “If they’re forced to shoot him, we’ll be shit out of luck.”

  “I realize that, but it’s out of our hands. When the senior FBI rep at Tyson’s Corner heard we were sniffing around, he told Landrieu in no uncertain terms that this was a very large, very expensive Bureau op, and that any interference would not be tolerated. So Landrieu, of course, made the call to Langley. Andrews nearly handed me my ass when he heard… We’re already in hot water for that little stunt you pulled in Fallujah. The heat isn’t just coming down from the White House, either. The Pentagon was distinctly unhappy with the way you misled Owen. According to the director, the last thing we can afford to do is interfere with a DOJ investigation on domestic soil. That’s a direct quote, by the way.”

  “That fucker Landrieu.” Kealey couldn’t restrain his anger. “The guy spent twenty years in the Agency, and he still stabs us in the back every chance he gets.”

  “I hear you, but like I said, it’s out of our hands. We just have to hope that the Bureau brings Mason in alive, and that, at some point, we get an opportunity to talk to him.”

  Kealey sat back in his seat and sipped the coffee, thinking about it. Of the three names Kassem had given him, Mason was the one he really wanted to talk to. The men who’d been killed on the Syrian border were Iraqi nationals, but Mason held American citizenship. Setting up secure lines of communication between Iraq and the United States would have been extremely difficult, which made it a good bet that Mason was involved at a much higher level.

  And that brought him to something else. It was something that he’d tried to push out of his mind for the last twenty-four hours, but with this development, he could no longer ignore Will Vanderveen’s return to the ranks of the living. Vanderveen had joined the U.S. Army under false pretenses and had posed successfully as an American for years. Both Mason and Vanderveen had ties to Iraq, the latter man through Rashid al-Umari. Kealey knew it was entirely possible that the two men were connected by more than just circumstance.