“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.”
“The main goal was achieved,” Vanderveen reminded him quietly. “Al-Maliki is no longer in a position to challenge you. Besides, that was done to establish my credentials. You incurred no cost.”
“And the Iranians?” al-Douri asked. The smile had turned smug. “Is it not true that you failed them as well?”
Will Vanderveen felt a sliver of cold running down his spine. His face, however, remained impassive.
Al-Tikriti said, “We know who you are, Mr. Vanderveen. A former U.S. soldier, a traitor to your own people. Surely, a man of your intelligence can see the point…What is to stop you from turning on us?”
“If you know who I am, then you’ll know that they are not my people. What the West has done to me makes your suffering pale in comparison.”
Izzat al-Douri’s face tightened in fury, but before he could lash out, Vanderveen continued in a calm, measured voice. “Gentlemen, I have seen copies of the watch lists going back three months, and my name does not appear on any of them. U.S. intelligence believes I am dead, which gives me the ability to move and operate. You, on the other hand, remain two of the most wanted men in Iraq. I failed in Washington because the Iranians insisted on interfering. That will not happen again. I know what needs to be done, and I need no further assistance.”
Al-Tikriti considered this for a moment, tenting his fingers beneath his chin in a strangely pontifical gesture. “As you know,” he finally said, “this plan is not in its infancy. Arrangements have already been made in Paris…arrangements that could make your work much easier.” He paused. “Of course, the final decision is yours to make.”
Vanderveen hesitated, then said, “Go on.”
The former intelligence chief spoke for twenty minutes. When he was done, Vanderveen nodded his agreement, impressed in spite of himself. It was easy to see how al-Tikriti had earned his post; the older man was not bound by the usual limitations of Islamic extremism. In particular, his views on the fairer sex seemed to be far more progressive than those of his peers.
“I’ll need a point of contact,” Vanderveen said. He proceeded to recite a lengthy string of digits as well as an access code. “You can leave and pick up messages on that line. Obviously, face-to-face meetings will no longer be possible once we’ve set things in motion.”
Tahir al-Tikriti nodded once. “I’ll provide you with the number before you leave. Since we’re on the subject, the Jordanian’s successor has offered the use of his people.”
“I don’t need them. I’ll use the woman, but I’ll arrange everything else myself.”
“And documents? We can provide—”
“I have those as well. Let me make myself clear. Anything that connects us is dangerous. The fewer the links, the better off we are.” He paused. “There is one other thing. I understand the need to move immediately, but I expect the first ten million to be deposited in two days’ time. The rest should be delivered once the job is completed in New York. If the plans for the meeting are changed or cancelled completely, I’ll reserve the right to end things there. Agreed?”
“Agreed. You understand what we are looking for. The goal is to—”
“The goal is to eliminate the targets you’ve drawn up in the prescribed manner. A simple task—provided the meeting at the UN goes forward.”
“It will go forward,” al-Tikriti intoned. “I have no doubt of it.”
“Then our business here is concluded,” al-Douri said. He stood, and though he was looking into the blackness of the room, his pale eyes seemed to be fixed on Vanderveen’s. “With one exception.”
“Yes,” the younger man said. “With one exception.”
Rashid al-Umari turned restlessly in a bare room on the second floor. He had not been able to sleep, despite his exhaustion. The skies had opened just after midnight, and though the window was shut and the curtains drawn, the room was filled with the sound of rushing water and the occasional peal of distant thunder.
A sudden noise drew his gaze to the door. He saw a black silhouette against the light in the hall. Rashid blinked the sleep from his eyes and sat up on the foldout cot. He was not alarmed in the least. In this place, he was on safe ground; he was amongst brothers. “What is it? Kohl…?”
He saw the gun come up, but it wasn’t real. He recognized the extended barrel of a suppressed weapon, but it couldn’t be real, not after what he had done for them. Mired in disbelief, he didn’t react, but it wouldn’t have mattered.
The muzzle flashed twice, and Rashid al-Umari tumbled back into permanent night.
CHAPTER 12
WASHINGTON, D.C. • VIRGINIA
A premature winter wind whipped over the tarmac at Dulles International Airport as a Dassault Falcon executive jet taxied in on the 12/30 runway, the same plane having landed less than a minute earlier. Jonathan Harper, leaning against the rear fender of a black GMC Suburban—the only vehicle parked on the apron—brushed a few drops of rain from the sleeves of his Burberry overcoat and watched as the sleek jet rolled to a stop, the twin Pratt & Whitney engines winding down to a gradual halt. The cabin door swung out to the left a few moments later, the stairs came down, and the Falcon’s only passenger appeared in the doorway.
Harper instantly saw that Ryan Kealey was in rough shape. The lower half of his face was still covered in the thick, matted beard, and lank hair hung past the line of his jaw, further obscuring his features. His lean frame was covered by a pair of tattered khakis and a gray Nike sweatshirt, his rugged Columbia hiking boots still bearing clumps of red brown Iraqi mud. A large military rucksack was thrown over his right shoulder. He didn’t seem to be straining under the load, but there was something about the empty expression on his face that worried the