The Assassin. Andrew Britton

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ