Part 26 (1/2)

Each of the four men led a different s.h.i.+te militia cell, handling discipline and religious training and the problem of finding financing. Iran's ruling ayatollahs donated $5 million a month, but it was not enough to keep them in grenade launchers, mortars, ammo, stipends for martyrs' families, and food, housing, travel, and recruitment. Until Seymour had come along, they had supplemented their income with street crime, which had taken so much of their time that they had been forced to reduce the number of missions they could carry off.

”Inshallah. Where do you get such wealth?” Abdul Ahab asked.

The room grew tense. To them, Seymour was the key to a fortune, and a fortune was key to their being able to continue their militant crusade.

”Who's backing you?” demanded the man known as Antarah.

Seymour swung his H&K casually. They saw the motion.

”Come, Fatima.” As she floated toward the door, Seymour backed to it. Despite an urge to tell all of them to go f.u.c.k themselves, he kept his voice calm as he repeated an old Mesopotamian saying: ”When you ride a good horse, do you care in which country it was born? Of course not. Kill me, and your money stops.”

Their shoulders sagged.

But then Abdul Ahab rallied. ”Don't think just because you're the one with the money you have our loyalty. That belongs to Iran!”

”We wouldn't have it any other way,” Seymour said.

He turned, and Fatima and he walked out into Baghdad, a city that would soon be theirs.

63.

The Tigris flowed through Iraq like arterial blood. Tonight the river was calm and silvery. Wood boats anch.o.r.ed in the shallows tapped against each other, making a hollow sound. Seymour cradled his H&K carbine and stood in the shadows of an abandoned boathouse near Abu Nawas Street, keeping watch on the river. The earthen banks were a jungle of reeds and untended trees, perfect cover for tonight.

Hearing a rustle, he stepped back against the boathouse, his dark clothes and kaffiyeh blending into the shadow. He peered left, toward the street, which was above him here. His wife, Zahra, was hurrying down the slope, her abaya flowing. She covered her blue eyes with dark contact lenses, vanished under black cloth, and went out to do business with insurgents and terrorists under the nom de guerre Fatima.

”Any problems?” Zahra cradled a customized Ruger 9-mm semiautomatic pistol against her body. It was a blocky weapon, but she said she liked its ruggedness, strength, and reliability.

”None. Where are we with your arrangements?”

As they continued to wait by the river, Zahra told him about the Sunni leader of a network of sectarian death squads who was going to complete missions tomorrow. It had cost another $2 million.

s.h.i.+tes and Sunnis were like Catholics and Protestants in that they shared many common beliefs, such as that Muhammad was G.o.d's messenger and the Koran was divine. The split began in 632 when Muhammad died. Sunnis believed Muhammad's successor should be elected. They won the argument, and Muhammad's close friend and advisor Abu Bakr became the first caliph. But others thought someone in Muhammad's family, in this case his cousin and son-in-law, Ali bin Abu Talib, should have succeeded. His followers were called s.h.i.+tes. The wounds caused by the dispute deepened and continued to erupt into violence for the next 1,400 years.

The growl of a boat's motor drifted in from the quiet river, and a battered yacht came into view. Some fifty feet long, it had been ”freed” during the 2003 looting by two fishermen: Khalif and his son, Abbas. They lived on it, and they made their living with it, including the occasional dinner cruise. Tonight's cruise had ended just before one A.M., as planned. Now the yacht was returning home.

Seymour cracked open the boathouse's door and spoke into the darkness. ”It's here.”

”Yes, sir,” a voice answered from inside.

Zahra had pa.s.sed him and was walking down through the reeds to the sh.o.r.e. Seymour left the door open and hurried after her. There was a flurry on the yacht as Khalif and Abbas dropped anchor among the other boats in the makes.h.i.+ft harbor.

”A-salaamu aleek.u.m!” Seymour called. ”We'd like to rent your yacht tonight!”

”Come back tomorrow!” Khalif yelled.

But his son was lowering a dinghy into the water. ”He's too tired. I'm not.”

A notoriously hard worker, the son scrambled down the rope ladder and rowed toward them. In his forties, he had a dark, deeply rutted face that told of a lifetime working in Baghdad's harsh sun. When the dinghy slid into the reeds, Seymour was waiting, his adrenaline pumping. He slammed his carbine's b.u.t.t up under the son's chin then crashed it back into his throat, crus.h.i.+ng his windpipe. The man collapsed.

”Abbas!” the father yelled through the darkness. ”What's happening to you?”

”He's sick,” Seymour shouted back. ”We'll bring him to you!”

Zahra and Seymour climbed into the dinghy. Once she was settled, he rowed off, the dying man lying at his feet.

The father remained at the yacht's rail, the moon illuminating his worried expression. As they closed in, Zahra aimed the Ruger. Seymour looked over his shoulder to watch what would happen.

She fired once. A dark spot appeared on the bridge of the man's nose. He groaned, exhaled, and fell back onto the deck.

”Fine shot,” Seymour told her.

”Shukraan,” she said modestly. But her eyes were s.h.i.+ning.

They tied the dinghy to the yacht and climbed the ladder. Seymour checked the old man-dead. The varnish on the mahogany was peeling, and the seat cus.h.i.+ons were faded. But the wheelhouse was large, and there would be plenty of room down below for storage. Equally important was the configuration of the deck. It was perfect-flat and s.p.a.cious.

Seymour and Zahra stood at the rail together, holding hands as they watched a large rowboat cruise toward them. All that showed were the heads of three men and the silhouette of a tall tarped mound that would be parts for three special mortars.

”Let's check down below.” She headed for the wheelhouse.

Seymour's iPhone vibrated. ”I've got a call.”

She stopped. ”I'll wait.”

There was no name on the ID screen. Frowning, he touched the TALK key but said nothing, waiting in the silence.

A woman finally spoke. ”You are one suspicious fox, Seymour. Is me, Liza Kosciuch.”

”It's been a while, Liza. What can I do for you?” He had known Liza since the eighties, when they had trained together in a PLO camp in Sudan.

”Is something I'm doing for you. Our old colleague Krot arrived with a lady friend tonight. Then a man and woman broke in to talk to Krot. They said their names were Greg and Courtney Roman and they were tracking Krot for the Carnivore. Krot gave them some special rocks-cuneiform rocks-and told them he was quitting the business. So he and his lady drove out of the garage. This is important ... no one but us knew he was here. No one. I have excellent security, but even that did not matter. A motorcyclist ran up and shot Krot. The bullets went through Krot's head and into the lady's head. She died, too. The motorcyclist was wearing one of those all-over helmets that are darkened. No way anyone could see his face. Who do you guess it was?”

”Sounds like the Carnivore.”

”Who else? He took off on his motorcycle. Greg and Courtney Roman chased him, but he got away. So they came back and bought the audio recording of what Krot and his lady had said in their room. I kept a copy. They're looking for you, Seymour.”

He felt a jolt of excitement. ”How much do you want for the recording?”

”Is free. I will give you video of Courtney and Greg Roman, too, since they are probably headed for Baghdad. I do this for Krot. I am hoping you will get that s.h.i.+t Carnivore. Give me your e-mail address.”

He relayed it. ”Is that all your news?”

”No. Krot's lady was Katia Levinchev.”

Seymour's breath left his body. He willed himself to remain on his feet. He looked for Zahra. She was still waiting at the wheelhouse. She stepped toward him. Her expression told him she knew something was wrong.