Part 31 (1/2)
[B]y one single [a.s.sa.s.sin] on foot, a king may be stricken with terror, though he own more than a hundred thousand hors.e.m.e.n.
-Ismaili Poem in Praise of the Fidawis, by a thirteenth-century Persian poet
76.
Zahra and Siraj al-Sabah lived in central Baghdad in the heavily fortified Green Zone, once the infamous playground of Saddam Hussein's family and governing elite, now the nerve center of Iraq's national government and home to emba.s.sies and the political elite. The al-Sabahs' villa was on a street lined with swaying palms. Red bougainvillea climbed the white walls, and glistening blue tiles blanketed the driveway. The interior was comfortable, with hand-knotted carpets on the marble floors, Western-style furniture covered in Iraqi-designed prints, and antique tables from the Ottoman era.
It had been a long day, especially after a night of little sleep. Al-Sabah had napped, while his wife had paced the house, mourning Katia. Now he was home from meeting with Ayatollah Gilani and ready for a drink. He was an observant Muslim in all things but this: If Muhammad could drink fermented camel's milk, then he was not going to deprive himself of the occasional c.o.c.ktail.
In the den, Zahra was lying on a couch, an arm over her eyes, a wad of tissues in her hand. He walked around behind the bar. ”Gin and tonic?”
She sat up, her face puffy, her eyes rimmed in red.
”Do you think I did the wrong thing?” she asked in Russian.
”If you mean about Marrakech, you didn't have any choice,” he answered in Russian. ”You were sanctioned. Lubyanka was setting up the 'accident' when we staged your suicide. I'm making you a drink. Alcohol will help. Alcohol always helps Russians.”
It was a little joke, and she actually smiled at him.
Then she sobbed. ”I was so ashamed. I couldn't tell Katia. How could I tell her what her mother had become? I wanted her to believe in a good mother so she could be one herself someday.” She lowered her head, crying into the tissues.
He quickly mixed the drinks and carried them to the couch. He set them on the table then put his arms around her, holding her close. She buried her face in his chest, her tears soaking his s.h.i.+rt. The sobs and tears and great gasps of breath touched an old part of him, a lost part that once knew how to cry.
”Darling Roza, dear Roza,” he crooned. ”You gave her a good life. She was free to do and become anything she wanted in the United States. If you'd taken her to Marrakech, we would've had to fake her death, too, and she would've had to go into hiding with us. She was just a teenager. She wouldn't have been able to have any sort of normal life. And how could we expect her to understand much less approve of the way we were living? Her mother was not only an a.s.sa.s.sin, but she loved two men, and they her. Katia would've hated it. Hated you; hated all of us. Her good memories and love for you and Grigori would've died.”
Roza-Zahra-pulled away and leaned her head back against the couch. Her graying blond hair was a maelstrom. Her lips were swollen.
”You're right.” She closed her eyes. ”I really f.u.c.ked things up.”
”No, circ.u.mstances did. All of us got caught in something bigger than us-the needs of our countries. And then the countries left us twisting in the wind. Imagine what h.e.l.l her life would've been if we'd brought her to Iraq with us. She was used to the freedom of being a young woman in a Western country. That could've gotten her killed here, if a car bomb or IED or random gunfire didn't.”
Roza nodded. Then she nodded again, as if telling herself to get on with it. ”I'll have that drink now.”
He picked up the martinis and handed her one. He touched the rim of his gla.s.s to hers, and they heard the musical clink of fine crystal. ”To Katia Levinchev, our daughter.” Not Grigori's daughter, his daughter. Neither Grigori nor Katia ever knew. It had been a hard thing for him to live with, but in the beginning it had been necessary because of the politics of the time, of the distrust in both their organizations if Roza had divorced Grigori and married him. Later the lie had been necessary to protect the girl.
”We did the best we could.” She gave him a brave smile. ”Now tell me how your meeting went with Ayatollah Gilani.”
A half hour later a call came in from Jabari. ”Good news. Mahmoud Issa is dead. The bomb went off in his office as planned. None of our people has said anything, but there's a new sobriety. They understand it was an execution-and why. We won't have any more attempts at defection. Also I got a phone call from one of the waiters. He swore he'd seen Greg Roman in the nightclub.”
”You think he really saw Roman?”
”I sent people to check it out, but no one's been able to find out for sure.”
”Unfortunate. It'd be nice to have an easy solution.”
”But we're ahead with Courtney Roman.” Jabari's voice was triumphant. ”We staged a car crash and got her. An old man was driving. I took a photo of him. I've e-mailed it to you.”
”Hold on.”
Al-Sabah switched functions on his iPhone, checked his e-mail, and saw the familiar face of an angry old man with a long silver ponytail. Blood streaked his cheek. Trapped by a car's air bag, his lips were pulled back in a snarl.
Cursing, he reopened the line to Jabari. ”It's Burleigh Morgan. Somehow he escaped the car bomb we set for him in Paris.”
”What do you want us to do with him and the woman?”
Al-Sabah thought a moment, then he gave instructions.
77.
Coughing, Judd regained consciousness. Plaster dust snowed down from the ceiling in Mahmoud's office. Bosa and he were covered with it. Elsewhere in the nightclub, women were screaming. Someone was gagging. Mahmoud's arm lay on the coffee table in front of them, tendons and veins dripping blood. Judd could see other body parts scattered around the room. While the bomb had detonated next to the wall with the wh.o.r.ehouse, leaving a large hole, Bosa and he had been protected by the cabinet and sofas.
”You've still got the miniature camera?” Bosa asked.
Judd lifted his hand from his pistol. There it was, the camera that looked like an ordinary memory stick. As it slipped off the gun, he grabbed it and put it in his jeans pocket. With luck, it contained the complete video of what Mahmoud had told them. ”Sure do.”
Exchanging a glance, the two men shook themselves into action and rushed out of the room, pa.s.sing the working ladies and johns, who were motionless, stunned. White dust coated them, too. The bouncer was on his feet but seemed dazed. He flung open the door and ran out. They followed.
It was bedlam. People yelled and pushed for the exits. Judd and Bosa entered the throng, people pressing all around. The stench of fear-induced sweat rose in the air. And then Judd saw a flyer in the hand of one of the waiters. The man was surveying the crowd.
Judd turned sideways, his back to the man, moving with the crowd.
”I've got him!” A different waiter was looking directly at Judd from across the crowd, waving the flyer. He jostled people aside, trying to reach Judd.
”Holy s.h.i.+t.” Judd looked for an opening so he could get out more quickly.
From behind, Bosa said, ”I see him.”
Judd looked back over his shoulder. Bosa had stopped moving. People cursed and shoved him.
The waiter's gaze was locked on Judd. But as soon as he started past Bosa, Bosa cold-c.o.c.ked him. There was a flash of surprise on the man's face, then he collapsed. Bosa caught him and dumped him under a table.
At last Judd reached the counter where the young man had tried to take their weapons. He was still there, backed into a corner. Some men were fighting to get past one another to their firearms; others were waving euros and dollars, trying to buy them back.
Judd could smell fresh air. The nightclub's double doors were wide open.
”Judd!” The voice was loud. It came from somewhere ahead.
That was when he saw him-Hilu Wahid. Improbably, he was peering over the top of one of the doors. Police sirens were shrieking.
Hilu bellowed, ”Judd! Ya Allah! Ya Allah!” For G.o.d's sake, hurry!
Propelled by the stream of people, Judd burst out of the doorway. Hilu climbed off the back of a man who looked strong enough to lift a bank vault. Hilu was perhaps five feet five inches tall, a chubby-cheeked, friendly-looking man with thick tufts of black hair on the sides of his head. He handed a wad of dinars to the man who had been his stepladder and thanked him politely.