Part 25 (2/2)

”Go through the pictures again,” Morgan said. ”I'm not sure what I wanted to see.”

Bosa obliged.

”There's something about Tabrizi,” Morgan said. ”Can't say what. Is there any way to see him move?”

”Probably.” Bosa clicked on VIDEOS at the top of the page.

A column of photos with descriptive text appeared. Bosa scrolled down the page. He opened one, and they watched a video of Tabrizi standing in parliament, shaking his fist. In others, he was cheering at a soccer game and greeting people at an outdoor market.

”Well?” Bosa asked.

”Keep going,” Morgan ordered.

The next video showed a clear Baghdad day. Tabrizi embraced a s.h.i.+te cleric wearing a black turban then strolled with him down a sidewalk in front of the same white building from earlier. The men held hands, which Muslim men did with close male friends. A woman in a long black abaya, most of her face covered, stood at the curb watching. She was small, a good head shorter than Tabrizi and the cleric. A bearded man in a business suit walked into view and joined her. He was smoking a cigar, obviously enjoying it. As they stood there, the cleric climbed into the rear of a black limousine. They waved, Tabrizi waved, and the limo rolled away.

”Holy mother of Jesus, Alex, did you see what I saw?” Morgan asked, excited.

”Tabrizi?” Eva asked. ”What is it?”

”I didn't see anything special,” Judd admitted.

Neither of the a.s.sa.s.sins answered. The video continued to play: The would-be prime minister, Tabrizi, turned to the bearded man and the woman in the abaya. He said something, and all three walked back toward the camera. Tabrizi laughed at the camera. The bearded man laughed at the camera and waved his cigar. And then it was over.

”I'll be d.a.m.ned,” Bosa swore. ”I never would've guessed it. He's got that slight hesitation before he comes off the b.a.l.l.s of his feet. He's not bothering to hide his natural walk. He's decided he's safe enough in Iraq not to always be on high alert.”

”Yes,” Morgan agreed, ”and it's also the way he swings his left arm. It's a little crooked compared to his right one. And see how much he likes his cigar? Just like you, Alex. You two are cigar sn.o.bs. Again, bingo. We've found Seymour, b.l.o.o.d.y b.a.s.t.a.r.d.”

Eva's voice rose. ”Tabrizi-the presidential candidate?”

”No, no.” Bosa shook his head. ”It's the other one. The bigger man-the one with the beard. He's Seymour. I wonder what name he's living under.” He clicked back through several still photos until he came to an unposed shot of six men drinking tea in a cafe.

”That's the bloke,” Morgan said immediately.

The man he indicated had the same square face, short gray beard, trimmed gray mustache, and blockhouse body as the unnamed man in the video with Tabrizi and the cleric.

”According to the caption, his name is Siraj al-Sabah,” Eva said. ”Anyone know anything about him?”

”We ran into his name earlier when I was researching the SIL,” Bosa remembered. ”Tabrizi and al-Sabah founded the SIL.”

Morgan gave a cold chuckle. ”Who would've thought Seymour would be hiding out in Iraq. But then, a war-torn country that the world wants to forget is always a good place to lose yourself. And the pigd.i.c.k's gone into national politics. He has what he always wanted-the limelight. It's a small limelight, but it's a h.e.l.l of a lot bigger than any of the rest of us in our business ever gets.”

Bosa nodded grimly. ”Now we know. Siraj al-Sabah is Seymour.”

62.

Baghdad, Iraq It was past midnight in Sadr City, home to more than two million Iraqis. The moon shone down brightly as Seymour drove onto Umreidi Street, notorious for its black market. Everything was for sale here, from alcohol to weapons, from pharmaceuticals to human organs. The street was quiet; most illicit activity happened inside the ramshackle mud-and-brick buildings.

As he parked, Seymour heard automatic gunfire crackle across the Tigris River from a wealthier section of the city. Violence roamed Baghdad's streets and alleys again. The mortuary cla.s.sified victims by how they died-the beheaded were s.h.i.+as killed by Sunnis; those whose brains had been power-drilled were Sunnis murdered by s.h.i.+as. So many corpses washed up on riverbanks that people were afraid to eat the fish.

All of this was on Seymour's mind. After decades of wandering the globe, he had been back home in Iraq a dozen years. In the beginning, he had kept to Old Baghdad, where he could see vestiges of the capital city that once was, the richest city in all the world, the Baghdad of Mongols at the gates and of caliphs in their harems. He wandered the dusty streets with their picturesque sand-colored buildings, their overhanging balconies and oriel windows with woven screens of carved wood. He drank the sweet cinnamon-flavored tea and listened to the laughter of coppersmiths pounding out their wares. And now he had risen to the heart of this ancient country's tense political situation.

Leaving his car, he carried his Heckler & Koch 416 carbine and a nondescript suitcase heavy with cash. Scanning alertly, he moved off.

Despite his bulk, Seymour walked quickly and surely. He wore loose jeans, a long s.h.i.+rt and coat, and a traditional kaffiyeh, a checked cotton scarf, covering all of his head except for his eyes.

As he approached the house he needed, the door opened.

”Ahlaan.” Welcome. Fatima stood in the doorway, her body hidden in a long black abaya, her head covered by a black niqaab scarf arranged so that only her dark eyes showed.

”A-salaamu aleek.u.m,” Seymour greeted her.

Her eyes smiled, and his heart pounded a little faster.

She retreated to the area that was the kitchen-a propane-powered two-burner stove and a wood shelf holding bowls and pots.

Four men in dark jeans and s.h.i.+rts sat on stools around a long wood table in the claustrophobic room illuminated by a single oil lamp. They, too, hid their faces behind kaffiyehs. In the underworld of Iraqi militias, it was safest to be anonymous, even to one's benefactors. An open laptop sat on the table before each, and Kalashnikovs leaned against the table within easy reach. All looked first at Seymour's H&K then at his suitcase.

”Our money is here at last.” The one who spoke used the name Abdul Ahab, which meant Servant of the One. A former structural engineer, he specialized in military tactics.

”Let's see it.” The second speaker called himself Ma'thur, the name of the first sword the Prophet owned.

But Seymour looked over their heads to the black-swathed Fatima, the name his wife used when undercover. ”You've checked the plans?”

Again she nodded. ”They're good.” She listed the places in Baghdad and the rest of the cities in Iraq that would be involved. She'd had extensive KGB training in operations.

”We're set to go this morning,” Abdul Ahab a.s.sured him.

But again Seymour consulted Fatima. ”Are you satisfied?”

”I am.”

With that, Seymour set the suitcase on the table. The four men leaned forward, watching. Seymour spun the rotors of the combination lock with one hand, while he kept his H&K ready with the other. When he heard the faint click, he pushed the latches with his thumb. The lid flipped up. Tidy stacks of greenbacks appeared.

He turned the suitcase so they could see. ”Two million U.S. dollars,” he told them. ”As agreed.”

They stared. There was a moment of silent appreciation.

Then Abdul Ahab pulled the suitcase to him and began dividing the cash. ”Our expenses are large. You will deliver the rest tomorrow night.” It was a statement, not a question.

”Do your jobs, and you'll have the money.”

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