Part 30 (2/2)

”You're religious?” Judd asked. ”Are my eyes lying, or is this a-”

”A very high-cla.s.s wh.o.r.ehouse.” Mahmoud laughed. ”This part of my establishment obviously isn't religious, but it's high-security and safe for intimate gatherings.”

”You work for al-Sabah?” Judd wanted to be sure.

”Yes.” Mahmoud opened another door and invited them into a silent room with paneled walls and leather furniture, a masculine room.

”My office,” Mahmoud said. ”Please sit. Relax. Chivas Regal? This is the hour I indulge myself. You could say it's my daily ritual.”

To their right were two heavy leather sofas facing each other, a chrome coffee table between.

Bosa lowered himself on the more distant of the two sofas, facing them. ”I'll have a double.” He set his Walther on his thigh, his hand gripping the hilt.

Judd sat beside him. ”Double for me, too.” He also took out his pistol, but in his palm was what appeared to be a tiny memory stick. They had stopped to buy it at a crowded market in the Sadriya district. It was a miniature digital movie camera that was motion- and voice-activated and both saved the movie and sent it wirelessly. Judd had set up a new Yahoo account to receive it. Hidden between his hand and his weapon, the recording end was pointed at Mahmoud. He could feel Bosa watching.

Glancing at their pistols, Mahmoud walked behind the other sofa where they had seen a cabinet. He stood facing them. There was a crystal decanter on top of the cabinet. The decanter's facets reflected the light in a rainbow of colors.

Mahmoud put out his cigarette and picked up the decanter. ”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. I've worked for al-Sabah for years. It's thanks to him that I could afford to create all of this.” He nodded around him. ”He pays well, and I held on to my money.”

”Why do you want to leave al-Sabah?” Bosa asked.

Mahmoud studied Bosa. ”You are?”

”Alex Bosa,” the Carnivore told him. ”A friend of Judd's.”

Mahmoud focused on Judd. ”And you're a friend of Hilu's.”

”Yes. Tell us why you want out.”

”Because al-Sabah has gone too far,” Mahmoud said. ”I began working for him when I was young and angry and wanted to help my country. Now I'm older, and I'm a husband, father, and businessman. I see the bad place all of the violence has taken us. I want to grow my country, not destroy it. People here are all the time talking about the historic tension between Iraqi s.h.i.+tes and Iranian s.h.i.+tes, but Iran is trying to change that att.i.tude, and al-Sabah and Tabrizi are helping to front a lot of it with bribes, blackmail, and ideology. It's obvious Iran is the rising power in the Gulf states, and the United States and Saudi Arabia don't have an easy counter for that. So, it doesn't matter how we Iraqis feel about Iran. Resisting Iran is going to be dangerous.”

His face glum, Mahmoud removed the stopper of the decanter and poured the blended scotch into three rocks gla.s.ses. ”What finally made up my mind is al-Sabah had one of my oldest friends killed just because he fell in love with a girl whose father works for the opposition-for the prime minister.” Two angry spots appeared on his cheeks above his beard. ”When al-Sabah ordered it, I shot Jalal.” His lips thinned, and anguish crossed his face. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. ”Few people know what I'm about to tell you. It's not only al-Sabah, but it's also his wife, Zahra, and Tariq Tabrizi. Of the three, al-Sabah is the brains. He does the negotiating and back-room politicking. Zahra is the organizer. She goes undercover and works with militants and insurgents to arrange attacks. And Tabrizi has the fortune that they've been using to buy our country. Tabrizi makes speeches and appearances. And it's all for one goal-they're determined to join Iraq and Iran into one nation. They're calling it the Union of s.h.i.+te States.”

”Holy s.h.i.+t.” Judd sat up straight. ”Are you certain about this?”

”Yes. I've driven al-Sabah and Tabrizi to meetings with the Iranian mullahs. It seemed to me something big was happening, so I dug around. They're working with the mullahs to integrate Iraq with Iran.” Mahmoud handed the drinks to Judd and Bosa. Taking a long swallow of his own, he described a joint const.i.tution and steps for the two countries to integrate. ”Al-Sabah is planning an attack, a ma.s.sively destructive one that will force Iraqis to accept that the current prime minister has failed to stop the violence. With this one stroke, al-Sabah believes-and I think he's right-that the MPs will have to elect Tabrizi to be the next prime minister. Once that happens, Tabrizi and al-Sabah will use their money and political power to deliver Iraq into Iran's arms, and Iran will never let us go. You're an American, Judd Ryder. Tell the CIA about this. Tell the CIA to stop them, because I don't think our government can.”

”When is the attack?” Judd asked. ”I need all the details.”

”It's tonight.” As if for emphasis, Mahmoud jammed the stopper back into the crystal decanter.

The force of his action made the decanter shudder. Before he could say more, there was a tremendous roar. The cabinet beneath the decanter exploded. His body lifted and ripped apart. Stuffing and framework erupted from the sofa, and the frame bent and slammed against the chrome coffee table, and the coffee table crashed into Judd's and Bosa's legs, pinning them.

In a hidden place in his mind, Judd realized all of this had happened. Then he lost consciousness.

75.

”It looks like the b.l.o.o.d.y devil came through here and laid his dirty paws on everything in Baghdad,” Morgan rumbled, staring through the winds.h.i.+eld. ”This used to be a garden city. Beautiful architecture and unique brickwork. Fine houses with patios and courtyards and roof terraces. Now it's all security checkpoints, blast walls, and barbed wire.”

”A lot of bullet holes in buildings, too,” Eva said. ”Watch it-they're turning.”

The two men they had followed from the airport were driving a big black Hummer H3. It had been easy to see even at a distance on the highway, but now that they were in the city, it was squeezed in among other vehicles. Many were new-Land Cruisers, Pajeros, Beemers, and Jaguars. The city was dangerous, but it was not poor.

Honking his horn, Morgan nosed between a battered Cadillac and a new Peugeot. The Hummer was three cars ahead but in the same lane. It turned right. The two cars that followed drove straight ahead, and Morgan turned their Ford Explorer right, too.

Karar watched the Hummer turn, then the Ford Explorer with the female pa.s.senger whose face was on the flyer. Her name was Courtney Roman.

”They're still following you,” Karar reported to the man driving the Hummer. ”Do you see them in your rearview mirror?”

”I see them.”

Baghdad's traffic was thick. Blood-pressure levels shot sky high. Drivers swore, their arms windmilling with frustration. But Karar had found a solution-a new Yamaha SMAX motor scooter.

Bouncing up over the curb, he drove down the sidewalk, bypa.s.sing two pickups and six cars. Young men were playing backgammon at card tables in front of a cafe. He whizzed past, kicking up dust and gravel. They yelled and shook their fists. He turned the corner. There were only a dozen cars on the street. The Hummer was going slowly, as if the driver and pa.s.senger did not have a worry in the world, making sure the Ford Explorer could follow easily.

”I don't like it.” Morgan glared at the Hummer. ”There's not much traffic here, but he's driving so slow he could be in a funeral procession.”

Eva's elbow was on the back of her seat, and she was leaning over it, staring out the rear window. ”There's a cherry-red motor scooter behind us. I swear I saw it behind us earlier.”

”We've been made?” Morgan seemed to ask himself, not her.

”Doesn't look good.”

The Hummer pa.s.sed a clothing store, an appliance store, a toy store, and pulled into a parking garage.

”A trap!” Eva said.

”No s.h.i.+t. No way are we going in there.” Morgan hit the accelerator.

An enormous bakery van careened out of the parking garage's exit. The impact felt like a bulldozer had just run into them. Air bags exploded, locking Eva and Morgan against their seats. She pushed against the bag. Pain shot through her chest-some of her ribs were maybe cracked. Morgan swore words she had never heard. He had a cut on his forehead that was bleeding down his cheek. Somehow he must have hit the steering wheel. She could not reach her Glock. Morgan was struggling, trying to get to his weapon.

Her door swung open.

Carrying an AK-47, a tall, rugged man with a long black mustache stared at her, then at the photo on the flyer he held.

”How nice of you to stop by, Courtney Roman,” he mocked. ”We're planning a party just for you.”

SEYMOUR.

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