Part 27 (1/2)

Al-Sabah drove them away from the river. He phoned Jabari and warned him about Mahmoud. ”Mahmoud tried to save Jalal. In the end, he did the right thing and helped to execute him.”

”I'll have him watched.” Jabari Juader was his number two, a completely reliable man whose knowledge of Baghdad was as intimate as the veins in his body.

Ending the conversation, al-Sabah paused the car at a red light. He stroked Zahra's arm. As much as he wanted to, there was nothing he could do to repair her heartbreak.

”Can you stand to listen to Katia and Krot's conversation?” he asked.

She sat up, her face hardening. ”Yes, of course. We need to know everything.” She blew her nose.

He handed his iPhone to her. It was open to the attachment Liza Kosciuch had e-mailed. Zahra started the recording and put it on speakerphone. From Rachmaninoff's concerto to Katia's and Krot's warm statements of love, they listened carefully.

”Katia sounded so happy,” Zahra whispered. ”At least we have that.”

He nodded. ”The Carnivore is probably on his way here now. I forwarded the video Liza sent to Jabari with instructions to distribute it to our people and send out teams to cover the airport and train and bus stations. If Greg and Courtney Roman come, we'll find them.”

”We won't know what the Carnivore looks like,” she said worriedly.

”There are other ways to recognize him. The problem is, I'm the only one who can do it.” Al-Sabah parked the car at the curb.

Starting the video on the iPhone, she leaned close to him. He inhaled her fresh lemon scent. They watched Mr. and Mrs. Roman-the tall, athletic man in the Hawaiian s.h.i.+rt, and the woman with the red hair, dressed in dark slacks and blouse-run across the street toward Liza's garage, pause against the wall, then duck under the lowering garage door.

”They're well armed,” Zahra noted. ”They seem confident. Competent, too.”

”Don't worry, dear,” he a.s.sured her. ”We're better. Besides, we can't let them get away with murdering our Katia.”

65.

It was nine A.M. when al-Sabah strolled down the arcaded walkway of centuries-old Mutanabbi Street, the city's beating heart of intellectual and literary life. Old men in knit vests and a few old women in hijab sat in the open windows of the Poets' Cafe, arguing books and ideas while drinking strong tea from little cups shaped like hourgla.s.ses. The scent of fine tobacco was in the morning air.

Al-Sabah walked past and stopped a block away at a bookstall where he bought a copy of the International Herald Tribune. At exactly 9:04, the bomb went off in front of the cafe. The noise was thunderous. The facade exploded. Two wrens fell dead from the sky, killed when the blast sucked the oxygen from the air. Charred bodies and the smoking sh.e.l.ls of dozens of cars littered the area.

Satisfied, al-Sabah tucked the newspaper under his arm and walked away.

In central Baghdad, Tahrir Square was a roundabout at the end of Jumhuriya Bridge. Six of the city's major boulevards met there, the vehicles circling at dizzying speeds. At the nearby bus stop, two rockets exploded, shattering gla.s.s and melting signposts. Thick dust and debris rained down. Survivors screamed and ran.

As Zahra left, she noted with satisfaction that police were sealing off the bridge. By the time she was a mile away, the normally bustling city center was silent except for the high-pitched shriek of sirens.

Tariq Tabrizi, candidate for prime minister, stood outside the smouldering ruins of the Ministry of Interior. Ceilings had pancaked into rubble. The air stank of ash and soot. Forklifts were removing the sh.e.l.ls of burned-out vehicles. As Tabrizi lifted his head, news cameras focused on him. His long face was angry as he railed against the terrorist bombers-and against the current government.

”What more has to happen for the prime minister to know he should quit?” he raged. ”This is the country's deadliest day in a year. Attacking a government inst.i.tution like this ministry building is more than the terrible destruction you see around you.” The cameras panned over the smoking hills of concrete, brick, and wood. ”This is an attack on the state itself, designed to undermine our belief in our country and destroy our sense of unity. You said you'd keep us safe, Prime Minister al-Lami! Where are you now? Hiding under your expensive desk? Vote for me, people of Iraq. Elect a leader who will protect you!”

66.

The situation in Iraq was worsening: The national elections were over, but they still had no prime minister. Without a prime minister, they had no cabinet, and without a cabinet, bridges could not be fixed, schools could not be rebuilt, and hospitals could not be repaired.

In the parliament building, politicians jockeyed, each party trying to gather a large enough coalition to take control of the new government.

In one of the meeting rooms, two of Iraq's most influential men exchanged customary pleasantries. After shaking hands, they pressed their palms against their hearts and sat on sofas facing one another. From a bowl on the coffee table between them, they nibbled green pistachio nuts. The sweet aroma drifted through the room.

They were very different in dress, one traditional Arab, the other modern European. Both were s.h.i.+tes from the south. One was a member of parliament, an MP; the other was the cofounder of the Save Iraq League political party, which was backing Tariq Tabrizi for prime minister.

Siraj al-Sabah, cofounder of SIL, leaned forward over his bulk, clasping his hands between his knees. ”It's always good to see you, my friend. Is there any chance you'd honor us by taking a position in a Tabrizi government?”

Gone was al-Sabah's kaffiyeh, and in full display was his square face and short gray beard and mustache. Somehow he looked scholarly. His hands were k.n.o.bby, his nose flat, his black eyes steady. He was dressed for government business-a dove-gray Savile Row suit that emphasized the muscularity of his girth, a sedate green silk tie, and highly polished wing-tip shoes. He had checked the room for bugs before beginning the day's meetings.

”I'm delighted you ask,” the sheik said. ”If Tabrizi wins, I would like oil. After all, oil is the south's lifeblood.” Sheik Muhammad bin Khalifa al-Hamed lifted his hands and gestured widely around his red-and-whitecheckered headdress, drawing to him the room, the parliament, all of oil-rich Iraq. The sleeves of his thawb-his white robe-slid down, revealing his brawny forearms and gold Rolex watch.

Al-Sabah said nothing. He lowered his gaze. A respectful statue, he sat unmoving and unmoveable.

With al-Sabah's silence, a note of resignation entered the sheik's tone. ”But if not oil, then finance. Definitely finance. If you're serious about wanting my people's votes for your coalition, I must have finance.”

Al-Sabah looked up. ”You deserve the Ministry of Oil or the Ministry of Finance. You could make something of them.” It was not what you told people that mattered in politics, it was how you made them feel. For millions of Iraqis, loyalty lay first with the tribe. An endors.e.m.e.nt by a popular tribal sheik like al-Hamed could make or break a coalition.

”Then it's oil?” al-Hamed said eagerly.

”My friend, I can't do that.” Al-Sabah wanted to keep oil, finance, and the interior for himself. Those three ministries would give him the most clout.

The sheik's black brows lowered, hinting at anger. ”You need me. Tabrizi needs me. Don't let me down.”

Al-Sabah patted his hand. ”We hope never to disappoint you. Let's talk for a moment about one of the tragedies of our people. Our date trees.”

For five thousand years, southern Iraq had been famous for its dates. But the Iraqi date farmers were mostly s.h.i.+te, and Saddam Hussein was both paranoid and Sunni. When they finally revolted, his troops crushed them, and to make sure they never rose up again, he ordered some six million date palm trees cut down. Then the swamps were drained, killing the rest of the trees.

”Saddam wasn't satisfied killing s.h.i.+tes.” The sheik's voice rose with outrage. ”He executed our date trees, too.”

Al-Sabah nodded. ”Remember how beautiful Basra was-the wide boulevards, the flower gardens and parks? Now it's a dump. Help our people, Muhammad. We need to be the date capital of the world again. If you do that, you will be an important international figure.”

The sheik sighed heavily. ”I want to say yes, but I have a large family to support. On the other hand, if it's oil or finance-” He shrugged, his meaning clear: With either ministry, he could skim and get generous kickbacks, while agriculture was, after all, just farming, a crippled giant unlikely to rise from its knees anytime soon.

Al-Sabah slid a large white envelope across the coffee table. ”You must save our date industry, Muhammad. You'll be doing Allah's work.”

The sheik picked up the envelope, lifted the flap, and peered inside. His eyebrows rose. Pulling out the sheets of paper, he scanned them and smiled broadly. They were unregistered bearer bonds totaling 1 million, about $1.4 million at today's exchange rate-highly liquid, with no record of the owner or the transfer of owners.h.i.+p. As good as cash, they were much easier to conceal and transport. He studied al-Sabah. ”I hear I'm not the only one to receive an offer of a kindly gift from you. Where did you get such a fortune that you can be so generous? I ask only because I'm concerned you'll deprive yourself.”

”My resources are a deep well,” al-Sabah a.s.sured him. ”Don't worry, my friend. Perhaps in six months you'd like another white envelope?”

”With the same contents?”