Part 32 (2/2)
”All three of them must've been here in Baghdad,” Judd said. ”Seymour, Roza, and Grigori. Why didn't they tell Katia?”
”Roza apparently wanted her daughter to think she was dead,” Bosa said. ”Other than that, you'd have to ask her.”
”And now she's Zahra, Seymour's wife.” Judd shook his head.
”Let's follow her around, Hilu,” Bosa said. ”She'll lead us to him.”
They angled to the right, always keeping Zahra in view as she greeted women friends. She chatted, she laughed, she touched their arms.
The crowd opened enough that they could see Tariq Tabrizi making his way toward a stage that had been erected at the other end of the room.
”Stop here,” Bosa said.
Judd saw he was studying Tabrizi.
”Now I understand why Morgan was interested in Tabrizi when we were watching the videos of him and Seymour on the plane,” Bosa said. ”Seeing Tabrizi is like looking at a ghost.”
”What do you mean?” Judd asked.
Bosa crooked a finger, and Judd and Hilu crouched together beside the wheelchair.
Bosa leaned close. ”Hilu, listen while I talk to Judd.” Then to Judd: ”Remember how this whole mess started with Saddam when he hired a major financier to hide his fortune?” It was a rhetorical question, because he continued without waiting for Judd to answer: ”The financier divided the money into six sections and hired five more financiers. Each stashed their portion. Only Saddam and the head financier knew where all of the parts were. So Saddam hired Morgan to put together a team of six a.s.sa.s.sins, each to eliminate one of the moneymen. Morgan can be an obliging sort, so when Seymour asked that his target be the top financier, Morgan agreed. Afterward, everyone reported their wet jobs were successful. Then when Saddam was executed, no one could find the bulk of his money. It was believed the information died with him.”
”It's not Saddam's money,” Hilu corrected angrily. ”Many billions are still missing, and they belong to the people of Iraq.”
”True,” Bosa said. ”In any case, the money isn't missing now. Tariq Tabrizi can tell you where it is. Every dirham, every penny, every euro. All of it.”
Judd frowned. ”What are you saying?”
”Tabrizi is the London financier who was responsible for hiding Saddam's money,” Bosa explained. ”His real name is Toma Asker-Professor Toma Asker. He was one of the highest-flying, most successful moneymakers and managers in Europe. Instead of erasing him, my guess is Seymour helped him to vanish because there was something in it for him-probably money and maybe the political arrangement we're seeing now between them.”
”Tabrizi is trying to buy a new job for himself-prime minister of Iraq,” Hilu said.
”Agreed,” Judd told him. ”We need to figure out a way to expose him.”
As Judd and Hilu stood, the U.S. amba.s.sador and the current Iraqi prime minister climbed on stage, followed by Tabrizi. Tabrizi shook hands with both men, then the three stood in a row facing the audience. It was apparent Tabrizi and Prime Minister al-Lami disliked each other, while the amba.s.sador had placed himself between them. Cameramen were taping. Journalists were recording and taking notes.
Al-Sabah-Seymour-finally appeared through an archway. He entered the crowd, greeting and making brief comments. He was far more impressive in person than he had been in the video. His face was open, his beard and mustache trimmed closely, his head at a happy, c.o.c.ky angle. He was smiling an inviting smile, and it seemed when partygoers spotted him, they moved toward him. He radiated the sort of charismatic energy that attracted people, made them want to talk to him, agree with him, follow him.
Close behind came a curly-haired man with a mustache and a muscular, athletic walk that spoke of strength and persistence. There was a bulge under his arm, and he surveyed the room as if looking for trouble. He must be al-Sabah's bodyguard. Judd's fingers itched, wanting his Beretta.
Al-Sabah was getting closer to them. Judd felt a moment of nervousness that al-Sabah might recognize Bosa and him, despite their disguises.
Just then, Judd's smartphone vibrated. h.e.l.l. He would check the call later. He slid his hand inside his jacket pocket and touched the b.u.t.ton that stopped the vibration.
Bosa told Hilu to get al-Sabah's attention. Hilu called out al-Sabah's name.
Al-Sabah turned. When he saw it was Hilu, he walked toward him. ”You are well?”
They pressed their hands against their hearts.
”Very well, thank you.”
Bosa cleared his throat. Hilu introduced him to al-Sabah.
”I understand that you like the fine cigars,” Bosa told him in his best Italian accent. He held up two fat cigars, each a rich dark brown color and encased in a gla.s.s tube. ”You have met the HMR?”
Staring at the cigars, al-Sabah said reverently, ”Gurkha His Majesty's Reserve.”
”Si, si.” Bosa gave him a confidential smile, one gourmand to another. ”A secret blend of premium tobaccos from all over the world covered by a rare aged Dominican wrapper and infused with an entire bottle of Louis XIII, an extraordinary cognac. As you must know, fewer than a hundred boxes a year are produced, but then their standards are the highest.” Each cigar also cost about $750. The Carnivore liked the best, and so did Seymour. ”I was fortunate to be allowed to purchase a box. I am happy to offer you a cigar. Care to join me outdoors to smoke? It is a grand and starry night.”
Al-Sabah's gray eyebrows rose. He looked around. The American amba.s.sador was introducing the two candidates. Cameras were whirring. Reporters were making notes. The audience was busy listening. Zahra had joined a large group of women.
”A pleasure,” al-Sabah told Bosa, and seemed to mean it. ”This way.” He walked toward a patio door.
The bodyguard followed through the throng. Next came Bosa with Hilu pus.h.i.+ng his wheelchair. Judd took one final look around and caught up with them.
80.
The yacht bobbed gently at anchor. The six Iraqis continued their work a.s.sembling the mortars on the deck.
”I'm almost ready,” Morgan whispered.
”What?” Eva looked at him, really looked. He was freeing his hands. ”How did you-?”
He shushed her. ”Don't stare at me.”
Eva peered back at the Iraqis, who were concentrating on their mortars.
”They weren't expecting prisoners,” Morgan continued, ”so they used ordinary rope, and they're not trained guards so they didn't take my belt-with the razor blade in it. Before they tied me up, I dug the razor blade out and hid it between my fingers. We've got to warn Bosa and Judd what they're planning for the emba.s.sy. I want you to start making a row, get at least one of them to come here. I'll give you Arabic insults to yell at them. With luck, whoever comes will have a gun and a cell. When he gets close enough, kick him in the pills. I'll cut you loose. While I search him for a gun, you search him for a cell. If you find one, run to the bow and jump over. Hold the cell high, and keep it dry. Then start phoning. If the guy doesn't have a cell, stay close until we can find one. Got it?”
”Why do I jump over the bow? The sides are closer.”
”The bow is farther from them, and it's long and sculpted, which means it's got a decent overhang to protect you from gunfire. Of course, you're going to have to be smart and stay under it. Don't get entrepreneurial.” His thin frame was intense, his gaze sweeping the yacht then studying the Iraqis. ”As soon as you get a phone, go. Don't look back or wait for me.”
”And what will you be doing while I'm running and phoning and treading water?”
”I'll be keeping them distracted.”
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