The Assassin - Andrew Britton

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they walked east on the wide boulevard, passing a number of cheap hotels, bakeries, and bathhouses.

      A stiff wind swept in from the sea, a hint of the coming storm. Rashid al-Umari shivered beneath his quilted anorak. His wardrobe no longer reflected his wealth and his years in London, as it had in the past. Kohl had pointed out this mistake after the near disaster in Aleppo, and al-Umari’s clothes—a T-shirt under the anorak, jeans, and running shoes—were now more in keeping with his surroundings. Kohl’s outfit was similarly disreputable, but it had never been otherwise; indeed, the German seemed to go out of his way to maintain a disheveled appearance.

      Rashid’s nerves were stretched taut, adrenaline pumping through his veins. For nearly five years he had been waiting for this opportunity. A quick glance at the other man’s face told him absolutely nothing; at this pivotal moment, Erich Kohl seemed to be made of stone. Rashid wondered if the man’s calm could be attributed to his natural disposition or years of operational experience. He would have guessed that both factors played a role. Not for the first time, he had the uneasy feeling that the German was a much more important figure than he’d previously indicated.

      His reverie was broken when Kohl seized his arm and pulled him abruptly into a narrow corridor. For a panicked instant, al-Umari feared that he had been lured into a trap, but he quickly realized how irrational that notion was. Nevertheless, he breathed easier when he saw that the other man was counting doors.

      Kohl stopped at the fourth and rapped twice.

      The foyer was dark, the only light emanating from the hallway beyond. Rashid had a brief impression of bare walls and scratched marble floors, but a bodyguard was already guiding him forward by the arm, Kohl trailing softly behind. They were not searched. From this, Rashid inferred that his host had not yet arrived, but the notion was quickly dispelled when he stepped into the next room.

      A bare bulb hung over his head like an afterthought, spilling warm yellow light over painted doors, which were recessed in the plaster walls. In turn, the walls were further adorned with an excessive number of intricate tapestries, as if to draw one’s attention away from the absence of windows. A marble floor was hidden beneath overlapping Persian rugs, the black-and-white mosaic revealed only in the far corners of the spacious room. A pair of overstuffed couches, conspicuous in their contemporary design, resided around a low wooden table.

      For all the beauty of his surroundings, though, Rashid al-Umari’s eyes were drawn first to the room’s sole occupant, and in that moment, he knew that he had been right to come, that his work over the past several years had not been in vain.

      Forewarned by their footsteps, the man glanced up. He was gaunt and surprisingly pale, but Rashid had expected as much, for he knew that this man, Izzat Ibrahim al-Douri, former vice president of Iraq, former deputy chairman of the Revolutionary Command Council (RCC), suffered from a long list of ailments that had plagued his health for years. It was widely speculated in the Western media that al-Douri, who was believed to be in his mid-sixties, had died of leukemia in November of 2005. The BBC had reported the story without verifying the source, but the U.S. State Department, unable to confirm reports of al-Douri’s death, had kept its lines of inquiry open and to date still offered a reward of ten million dollars for his capture.

      Strangely enough, Izzat al-Douri remained largely recognizable, despite his status as the most wanted man in Iraq, a position he’d claimed after al-Zarqawi’s death in June of 2006. His sparse hair was slicked back, the eyes magnified by a pair of thick plastic spectacles. His mouth, pulled taut in a thin smile, was barely visible beneath a thick red moustache. He stood and appraised his visitor.

      “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

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