The Assassin. Andrew Britton
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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