The Assassin (12 page)

“Welcome, Rashid.”

The younger man had trouble finding his voice. Rashid al-Umari had been fourteen years old the last time he had seen al-Douri. It had been a different time, a time when his own father had been at the height of his powers. Now, standing before this man, one of the few remaining symbols of the old regime, he was suddenly seized by emotion. “Comrade,” he managed to choke out. “A privilege…”

He was instantly appalled by his own display, but al-Douri smiled reassuringly and stepped forward, grasping Rashid’s shoulders with skeletal hands. The younger man was surprised by the strength in the grip and deeply touched by the gesture.

“No, my friend,” al-Douri said gently. “The privilege is mine.” He released al-Umari and gestured to the seating area. “Please sit. You must be tired. How was your journey?”

They took their seats, the bodyguard moving forward to murmur in the older man’s ear. Al-Douri nodded once, and the guard withdrew.

“The journey was excellent, comrade. Long, of course, but well worth the trial.”

“Good.” There was a brief pause, and the smile faded. “I was sorry to learn of your loss. You have my sympathies and those of your countrymen. This war has taken something from all of us, I think.”

“Yes.”

“Your father was a great man. I was honored to know him.”

“Thank you.”

“And your mother.” Izzat al-Douri’s voice had dropped to a whisper. His pale hazel eyes, unblinking, were fixed on the younger man. “Your sister… a tragedy.”

Al-Umari did not trust himself to respond. Once more he was standing on the hard-packed dirt of the al-Kharkh cemetery, fists balled by his sides, watching in silent, helpless rage as they lowered the bodies… He could scarcely breathe and his eyes burned, but he would not shed tears in this man’s presence. He would not humiliate himself any further.

Al-Douri seemed to sense his distress and remained silent as Rashid composed himself. Neither man noticed when the guard slipped into the room and deposited a silver tray bearing tea.

“Tell me, my friend. Why have you come? What do you hope to achieve?”

The words came out in a torrent; he could not control himself. “I want them to learn that the world is not their playground. They cannot take what is ours. They must learn humility. They must learn that they do
not
know what is best for the Iraqi people, that it is
not
their right to decide….”

“This is what you want?”

“It is what I seek.”

“And revenge.” It was not a question. “You seek revenge for your family.”

Al-Umari looked into the other man’s eyes. “Yes,” he finally murmured. “And revenge for my family.”

Al-Douri nodded slowly. He poured the tea. Behind them, Will Vanderveen paced aimlessly in the darkness of the room, his feet beating a slow, soft rhythm on the Persian rugs.

“It is possible for me to help you, but it will not be easy. The Americans have great influence. They have the best and most of everything: money, technology, weaponry….”

Rashid’s jaw tightened at this last point. He had been in London on the day his family was killed, but he had later seen what a single laser-guided bomb had done to his father’s estate.

“They are connected as well. A word from their State Department brings banks across the world in line. They have the power to freeze accounts, to seize funds….”

“Not my funds.”

Al-Douri’s eyes gleamed beneath the raw light. “Your funds as well, Rashid. You are not immune.”

“It has not happened yet. I would have been told.”

“By your accountants, perhaps, but not by the British, and certainly not by the Americans. Still, you need not be concerned. Your accounts are still fluid.”

Al-Umari’s eyes opened wide. “How can you know…?”

The other man waved the question away. “It is not important. What
is
important is that we find ourselves in a unique situation. At this critical time, my young friend, we are in a position to help
each other
.”

Izzat al-Douri leaned forward. “For five years, Rashid, I have eluded capture. I have done what I could to strengthen the mujahideen, to unite our brothers against the Zionist invaders. I would like to think that I’ve made a difference.”

“How could you think otherwise?” al-Umari demanded.

The older man nodded once, acknowledging the compliment. “Still,” he continued, “the war hurts most those who are willing to fight it. You know this as well as I.”

The statement, carefully calculated, seemed to cause Rashid al-Umari physical pain.

“They have taken everything from us, my friend, but we have not backed down,” al-Douri continued. “As we speak, two of my own sons are in Samarra, rallying our forces. Our funds have been seized, and still, we rail against the invaders.”

Al-Douri’s eyes were fixed on his prey. “I would not believe,” he murmured, “that a man of your great wealth, Rashid, would turn his back on his brothers in their hour of need. I do not believe that after enduring so much, you would not fully dedicate yourself to those who require your assistance. The faithful rely on those who are willing to fight. Iraq is rightfully theirs, but they cannot take it themselves. They rely on the strong. Their sons and daughters rely on the strong. Would you deny them?”

“Never.” Rashid rasped the single word.

“Will you help us?”

“Yes. I will do what I can, gladly.”

“I had no doubt of it.” Al-Douri settled back in his chair and lifted his cup. A long moment passed. “I assume Kohl told you what was required.”

It seemed strange to talk about the man as if he were not present. The footsteps had ceased, but al-Umari could hear quiet breathing in the background. “Yes.”

“And you are ready to do your duty?”

“I am. I have come prepared.”

At this, al-Douri smiled, and for a split second, relief flashed in his eyes. He nodded to Vanderveen, almost imperceptibly, and the younger man left the room. A moment later he returned, the bodyguard trailing, phone in hand.

It was easily done; al-Umari had made most of the arrangements in person several days before the bombing of the Babylon Hotel. It had not been easy to get away at that critical time, but the Industrial Development Bank in Jordan had produced the necessary paperwork with consummate speed. As always, their cooperation stemmed from Rashid’s extensive holdings with their corporate division.

Once he had his account officer on the phone, he spoke some prearranged code words and turned to al-Douri. “I’ll need the account and routing numbers.”

The older man nodded to his bodyguard, who stepped forward with a sheet of paper. Al-Umari read from the list, verified the instructions, and concluded the call.

In the space of twelve minutes, ten million U.S. dollars had been wired from the IDB in Amman to the Banque du Bosphore in Paris. From there, it would carve an impossible trail over much of Western Europe, as would a further sixty million over the course of the next few hours. Each successive wire transfer would be wiped clean of electronic surveillance by passing through the Ghariban Islamic Bank, a shell bank established just three months earlier by Farouk Haddad, an Iraqi who’d lost his wife and child to American artillery fire in the winter of 2004. The Ghariban had correspondent accounts with Citibank in France, which gave it access to the U.S. banking system. While Congress had recently passed laws to limit the risk, the financial centers in other countries were not always as diligent when it came to verifying the location, size, and customer base of the banks with which they did business. The Ghariban was one such bank; it had no corporate offices, no employees, and very few account holders, but it was still a legitimate financial institution with the ability to hold and move funds.

Al-Umari handed the phone to the bodyguard and turned to his host. The stress of the past few days was etched into his face. “The transfer has started.” He paused. “Comrade, if I could do more…”

Al-Douri stepped forward and embraced the younger man for a long moment. When he finally let go, there were tears in Rashid’s eyes.

“You have done a great thing for your people, my friend. Your work here is finished. You must leave at dawn, but now you should rest. Ahmed will show you to your room.”

Al-Umari nodded wearily and followed the bodyguard out the door. After a few seconds, their footsteps faded away entirely.

Izzat al-Douri and Vanderveen were left alone in the cavernous space on the ground floor. The younger man was still concealed in the shadows.

The Iraqi leaned back in his seat and lifted his eyes to the gilded ceiling. “How much does he know?”

“Very little. He believes our efforts are aimed at the military.”

“Good.”

“The Americans will learn of this, you know. They are interested in Rashid. It was a mistake to use him in Baghdad. And when they learn…”

“They may suspect, my friend, but they will never learn. Remember, everything lies on misdirection. We have worked hard to plant the seeds of uncertainty.”

Vanderveen nodded absently. “And Kassem?”

“You believe the reports?”

“Of course. Who else but the West would take him?”

“Perhaps you are right.” There was a brief, uncertain pause. “Can he hurt us?”

“No,” Vanderveen replied. “I’ve already made the call to Washington. An operation has been in the works there for some time, and my contact is now in a position to finish the job. Most of the links have already been severed. Just one remains, and when he dies, there will be nothing left to tie us to Kassem.”

“Good.”

“Did he know of your involvement?”

“No, I always used intermediaries.” Al-Douri deliberated for a long moment. “Arshad is not a true believer. He was always in it for the money. He insisted on thieving from the Americans, even after I warned him against it. I should have taken care of that problem a long time ago. Still, if your man in Washington is as efficient as you say, there is no cause for concern.”

Vanderveen did not reply. He was not surprised by the other man’s assumption that his U.S. contact was male; like most Islamic extremists, Izzat al-Douri would never believe a woman capable of carrying out such a crucial task.

“Then we are set to proceed.”

“Indeed.” A terrible smile eased its way across the Iraqi’s face. “Ahmed? Bring him in.”

The bodyguard slipped from the room and returned with a second man. Will Vanderveen, still lost in the shadows, carefully appraised the new arrival. He was dressed in a neat double-breasted charcoal suit, which served to conceal his heavy frame. The face was fleshed out, the dark hair fading to gray, but the man’s eyes were his most noticeable feature. They were coal black, and they radiated authority. Vanderveen immediately thought,
Internal security, intelligence at the outside
.

His intuition was rewarded a moment later, when al-Douri said, “Mr. Kohl, this is Jalil al-Tikriti. We’ve worked together for many years. Jalil was… shall we say, a
prominent
figure in the RCC.”

Vanderveen’s right arm swept into the light. He shook the proffered hand of Tahir Jalil Habbush al-Tikriti, former director of the Iraqi Intelligence Service, currently number sixteen on the U.S. most wanted list. It began to click into place; under al-Tikriti, the IIS had been charged with the creation of front companies in the midnineties, the purpose of which was to acquire missile technology from neighboring states. Now, those same companies — or others like them — could be used to hide incoming funds for the insurgency.

But there was something more; Vanderveen understood why the older man was reluctant to reveal al-Tikriti’s true capacity in the Baath regime. Years earlier, it had been reported that the former director of the IIS, in conjunction with the Palestinian terrorist Abu Nidal, had taken part in the training of 9/11 hijackers during the summer of 2001. Nidal was later found dead in the Iraqi capital, and a great deal of speculation had cropped up regarding Tahir al-Tikriti’s role in the whole scenario. Regardless of the truth, the Americans would be very interested in hearing what the former Iraqi intelligence director had to say on the matter. However, al-Douri’s caution — if that’s what it was — was clearly misplaced. To these men, William Vanderveen
was
Erich Kohl, and if Kohl had wanted to betray them, they would already be dead.

“Comrade Jalil,” al-Douri continued, “was instrumental in the development of the al-Quraysh Hotel in Mosul. As it happens, young Rashid is the new owner.”

“A wise investment,” Vanderveen said. The other men smiled. “And what has al-Umari actually purchased with this money?”

Izzat al-Douri flicked his gaze to the shadows, peering into the darkness. “Come into the light, my friend. Men should look into each other’s faces when discussing such matters.”

“I prefer the view from here. I’ll repeat the question. What happens to the money?”

The elder Iraqi’s eyes narrowed; he was finding it difficult to restrain his temper in the face of such arrogance. “The money,” he began tersely, “will be divided as follows. Ten million goes to our politicians on the governing council. They are few, but they are powerful, and they are prepared to support our return to power in exchange for offshore accounts and the continued well-being of their families. Five million goes to the Iranian; he is already laying the groundwork in Washington. Another five million goes to the Syrian defense minister, who has agreed to make his contacts with Hezbollah, Hamas, and the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine available to us. As you undoubtedly know, all three groups have offices and substantial support in Damascus. A further thirty million has been set aside to entice them into crossing the border when the time comes. It is the most costly part of the operation… We have never enjoyed good relations with the Syrians, or the groups they sponsor, for that matter. Our freedom here has come at a steep price.”

“And the rest?”

A tight smile appeared on the elder Iraqi’s face. “The rest goes to you, my friend. Twenty million U.S. dollars, as agreed. However, I have yet to see justification for such an outrageous sum. Let us not forget that you failed in Baghdad.”