The Assassin (69 page)

She spun around angrily, her eyes filling with tears. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

He suddenly understood what she meant, but it left him in a difficult position, as he couldn’t address it directly. There was almost nothing he could say that wouldn’t hurt her feelings in one way or another. After thinking for a moment, he walked over and took her hand. She didn’t try to pull away, but she wouldn’t face him, either. “Naomi, look at me.”

When she finally lifted her gaze, he didn’t speak. Instead, he simply leaned down and kissed her. When he pulled away a minute later, a small smile appeared on her face. It was tiny and fleeting, but it was all he needed to see: a real smile, completely impulsive, not forced in the least. The reason for the kiss was simple and twofold: first, he had wanted it for weeks, and second, he felt the need to remind her of how beautiful she was. In truth, though, his feelings for her ran far deeper than she could have known, certainly much deeper than physical attraction. She was an incredible woman, and he’d take her any way he could get her. It was that simple.

“Are you sure about this?” she asked in a small voice. “I don’t want you to feel that you have to do it out of guilt or because you feel sorry for me.”

“Don’t say that. You know it’s not true.” Very carefully, he touched the bandage on her face, selecting a spot that he knew wouldn’t hurt her. “This will heal, Naomi. It’s just skin-deep.” He moved his hand down and lightly placed it over her heart. “I’m more worried about the wounds in here, but they will heal as well. You’ll see. It just takes time.”

The tears started again, and he pulled her close, stroking the back of her hair, murmuring all the right words, or at least trying to. He held her until she had cried herself out. Then he eased her over to the bed, sat next to her, and held her hand until her breathing assumed the soft rhythm of sleep. By the time Everett knocked on the door, Naomi was gone to the world. For now, at least, it seemed the dreams had released her from their terrible grasp. Kealey wished he could take comfort from her peaceful repose, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. He knew all too well that the dreams would eventually creep back.

In the end, they always did.

CHAPTER 59

AL ANBAR PROVINCE, IRAQ

The Palestine Hotel, a squat, square building devoid of both character and charm, sits on the eastern edge of the town of al-Qaim, 200 miles northwest of Baghdad, less than 2 miles east of the border with Syria. In April of 2005, the town was the scene of intense fighting between Sunni insurgents and the 3rd Armored Cavalry Regiment, along with four other towns on the Syrian border. Al-Qaim, however, stood out in that particular group, as it was thought to be the temporary headquarters of Abu Musab al-Zarqawi. Ultimately, al-Zarqawi eluded capture, only to be killed little more than a year later in a safe house north of Baqubah, but the U.S. forces remained and established Camp al-Qaim on the city outskirts. The camp was now home to the 3rd Battalion of the 6th Marine Regiment, but while the gate was less than a mile from the Palestine Hotel, Ryan Kealey had no intention of visiting. He had everything he needed where he was, and in any event, he didn’t plan on staying long.

He was sitting in a small courtyard to the rear of the hotel, his green plastic chair resting on two legs against the stucco exterior wall, a paper cup of weak lemonade in his right hand. He tilted his head back to the sky, searching in vain for a breeze. The temperature was 90 degrees Fahrenheit, cold for November, but not after the snow he’d left behind in the Blue Ridge Mountains. Propped up against the wall next to him was a well-worn AK-47 with a single 30-round magazine. The courtyard was enclosed with yellow walls of stone and mortar and topped with concertina wire, all of which had been strung by the building’s occupants. On top of the flat roof was a guard shack surrounded by sandbags, manned by two men with scoped rifles.

Inside the building, however, lay the real security: an entire 12-man detachment of U.S. Special Forces operators, all of whom belonged to the 5th Group out of Fort Campbell, Kentucky. Six of the men were currently dressed as Iraqi soldiers, as was Kealey. The fatigues were almost identical to those worn by U.S. forces. In fact, the Iraqi Army’s battle dress uniforms were supplied by the Department of Defense. Only the rank structure was different, but that had been factored in, and all the uniforms had been carefully checked for authenticity. Kealey knew it was all relative; despite his dark features and black hair, the only way he would pass as an Arab was at a distance. For today’s work, that would suffice.

He had arrived in-country the day before, having spent most of the past week in Maine, preparing the house on Cape Elizabeth for Naomi’s arrival. He had found a simple pleasure in shopping for her, doing the small things in advance that might make her life a little bit easier. He’d gone so far as to set up a room entirely for her and her alone, complete with a queen-size bed and comfortable furnishings. While he hoped their relationship would continue to move forward, he knew she needed time and space to herself: time to recuperate and time to move past what had happened to her, as well as what she had done. Harper had asked them both to come back to the Agency, offering Naomi a considerable promotion, but both had refused. Naomi just wasn’t ready to even consider it, and Kealey wanted to devote himself entirely to her recovery. In fact, he wouldn’t be in Iraq at all if it wasn’t for the Agency’s work in breaking Hakim Rudaki, the supposed Bureau informant.

Once the FBI leadership had washed its hands of Rudaki, the Agency had stepped in to take over. It had been made clear to the naturalized Iranian that failure to cooperate would result in severe consequences, none of which would end with deportation. The meaning of this statement could not have been plainer, and Rudaki hurried to appease his new group of handlers. In the end, his contribution was largely limited to putting the Agency in direct contact with his cousin, the Syrian defense minister.

Unfortunately, this was where the Agency lost the advantage. There was simply no proof that Reza Bagheri had anything to do with the attempted assassination of the Iraqi prime minister, Nuri al-Maliki. Nor did he appear to have any connections to the Iranian dissidents who’d claimed the life of Dr. Nasir Tabrizi in Paris. When Kealey mentioned the ongoing investigation to Naomi at Windrush, she absently suggested a possible link between Bagheri and the Iranian conglomerate that had purchased Rashid al-Umari’s refinery near Samawah. It had seemed like a good possibility, but even that failed to turn up any evidence of wrongdoing. In short, the Agency couldn’t prove that Bagheri was anything but who he claimed to be, so the man in charge of negotiations, the recently confirmed deputy DCI, had been forced to deal.

The first goal, of course, was to determine whether Bagheri had useful information to begin with. It soon became clear that he did, and his innocence was quickly cast aside when he requested personal immunity from U.S. reprisal in addition to a large deposit in an offshore account. Harper had agreed readily, eager to put the matter to rest. Once Bagheri had his money and his immunity, he proceeded to tell an amazing story. As it turned out, the bombing of the Babylon Hotel, Tabrizi’s assassination, and the attempted terrorist bombing of New York City had all been masterminded by Izzat al-Douri, the former vice president of Iraq and a man believed dead since 2005. Since the invasion, al-Douri had been forking over large sums of money to select members of the Syrian government in exchange for asylum. His relationship with Will Vanderveen had resulted in the recruitment of Rashid al-Umari in Sadr City, and with al-Umari’s large contribution of working capital to the Sunni insurgency, the plan, long devised, was set into motion.

The minister also confirmed that he had received five million dollars for his role in putting al-Douri in touch with the Damascus-based offices of Hezbollah, Hamas, and Islamic Jihad, all of which had received healthy infusions of cash in recent weeks. According to Bagheri, the cash was incentive for the various groups to cross the Iraqi-Syrian border in the last two weeks of September, armed with weapons brought into the region by Vanderveen and his European arms broker, whom Bagheri couldn’t identify.

The one point that Reza Bagheri had stressed above all was his ignorance of the attack in New York. He had been paid to facilitate a meeting, nothing more, nothing less, and he’d had no desire to take part in a terrorist act on U.S. soil, especially an atrocity on the scale of 9/11. Harper wasn’t sure whether this was the truth, but Bagheri had made it sound convincing. Either way, Harper had made his deal, and he intended to keep it. As far as he was concerned, Bagheri’s story would ring true if — and only if — he could produce Izzat al-Douri, currently the most wanted man in Iraq.

Bagheri was quick to deliver. Within a week, he provided a current location as well as details of past movements. The former Iraqi vice president had moved several times since the start of the operation, from Tartus to Aleppo, Aleppo to Damascus, and from there to a town near al-Hasakar, where he’d inspected an arms cache delivered by Will Vanderveen several months earlier. That same cache — and many like it — had since been seized by U.S. forces sweeping over the border, but al-Douri had already traveled south to avoid capture.

Once Bagheri had turned over his wealth of knowledge, Harper pointed out that the Syrian government — culpable or not — would have to face some very difficult questions over the near disaster in New York if its relationship with Izzat al-Douri ever came to light. Bagheri had agreed. His first offer was to have al-Douri killed and the body produced for the purpose of identification, but that wasn’t good enough for the Agency. For what al-Douri had tried to do, he would have to answer to the United States on a more personal level. And so a plan was set in motion. Once the arrangements were made and confirmed, Harper had sent for Kealey, which explained why he was now sitting outside the Palestine Hotel, on the Syrian border.

He looked up sharply as the door to his left swung open. Lieutenant Colonel Paul Owen poked his head out and nodded once. The two men had patched up their differences over the kidnapping of Arshad Kassem in Fallujah, and they’d resolved their dispute the way all soldiers did: by buying each other a few rounds. Just finding the drinks the previous night should have been quite a feat in itself. Alcohol consumption was strictly forbidden for U.S. soldiers stationed in Iraq, but while regular soldiers might have had trouble acquiring liquor, SF operators had no such difficulties, just as they had no problem getting Ethan Allen furniture for their safe houses and fully loaded Land Rovers for their daily excursions.

“Thought I’d find you out here,” Owen said. “We just got a call from our friends in Damascus. Everything’s on schedule, and there’s a bonus.”

“What’s that?”

“Al-Douri has someone with him. A guy called al-Tikriti. You know the name?”

Kealey nodded. Tahir Jalil Habbush al-Tikriti, the former director of the Iraqi Intelligence Service, was currently number sixteen on the U.S. most-wanted list. It didn’t surprise Kealey at all that the two men were traveling together; when the Baathists were still in power, al-Douri’s considerable ties to the IIS had been confirmed on several occasions by high-ranking defectors, as well as in documents passed on by friendly services such as MI6 and the Israeli Mossad.

“Good. So we’ll get them both.”

“He’s due to arrive in an hour. Our helicopter’s waiting outside the base.”

Kealey frowned. “They have a perimeter?”

“Yeah, of course. They’re not going to land a chopper in an unsecured area. At least not this close to the city.”

Kealey nodded and tossed back the last of his lemonade, crumpling the cup in his right fist. Then he dropped it on the ground, grabbed the AK-47 off the wall, and stood up. “Where’s the truck?”

“Out front.”

“Let’s go.”

Forty-five minutes later, a black Ford Escort whined steadily down a narrow, two-lane road running across the Iraqi-Syrian border two miles south of the Euphrates. The vehicle was occupied by three people, a driver from the Military Security Department in Damascus and two older passengers, both of whom sat in the cramped backseat. The mood within the car was tense; just sixteen hours earlier, the two senior occupants had been summoned to the presidential palace in Lattakia, where they had met with Syrian president Bashar al-Assad. What he had told them was partially true: their role in the recent escalation of violence in Iraq — as well as the attempted bombing of the Renaissance Hotel in New York City — had been uncovered by U.S. intelligence. On top of that, the CIA was aware of their current location.

The news would have been difficult to take on its own, but to make matters worse, it had been accompanied by an ultimatum. Both men were given twenty-four hours to get their affairs in order and leave the country. They were given the use of a private jet, provided their final destination was within Syrian air space and close to the border. Al-Assad had made it abundantly clear that he had never approved of the actions they’d undertaken, and for good reason; if the Americans had decided to strike before considering all the variables, his government would have paid the price. The meeting had ended on this sour note. As they were wordlessly guided out of the office, neither man thought to protest their swift expulsion from the safe haven of Syria. Both were silently surprised to be given the chance to leave at all.

Neither could have known that the car waiting for them at the al-Maze military airport was fitted with a GPS transmitter sending an intermittent signal to a satellite in geosynchronous orbit. From the moment the driver had started the engine, the young technician at al-Maze tasked with monitoring the Escort’s position had begun relaying its coordinates by cell phone to a communications sergeant with the 5th Special Forces Group, the updates arriving in tenminute intervals. It wasn’t long before this unlikely partnership was able to pinpoint the Escort’s likely first destination, a border crossing 2 miles south of the Euphrates.