Andrew Britton: The Assassin

“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.

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.