Andrew Britton - The Assassin

“To avoid forgery, right? I heard that people were making their own title deeds during the war.”

“That’s right.” She seemed impressed, and Kealey felt vaguely insulted. He may not have known the specifics, but he did know a little something about the country in which he’d spent the last six months.

“Anyway,” she continued, “as it turns out, the Muthanna refinery was sold to a conglomerate of twenty-five Iraqi Sunnis, all of whom are active in mosques that have come to our attention for one reason or another, mostly for suspected recruitment of suicide bombers. Six have connections to known terrorist organizations, including Ansar al-Islam, but listen to this: at least three of those men can be directly tied to Mahmoud Ahmadinejad.”

Kealey was stunned by the reference to the Iranian president. “How the hell was that approved? I mean, if they had to turn up at the RERD-”

“We don’t think they did,” Naomi said. “It’s starting to look as if some money might have changed hands to, well, expedite the process. You see, the first appearance is just the start of it. If an application for sale is cleared by the RERD, it’s forwarded to the Civil Affairs Department. There, the identities of both parties are double-checked, after which the Monitoring Committee is brought in to confirm both the type and value of the property being sold. Finally, the sale has to be approved by the General Taxes Department, after which the application is filed at the PRER, the Permanent Real Estate Registry. It’s very complicated, and as you said, it never would have been approved if it had gone through the proper channels. A bribe to certain high-level officials would also explain why we didn’t pick up on this earlier… Once the paperwork is filed away, it pretty much disappears.”

“But we know that the sale was illegal under Iraqi law, right? Doesn’t that negate the transaction?”

She shook her head and traced the rim of her wineglass with a slender forefinger. “It’s just a suspicion, Ryan. We can’t prove it, but even if we could, we’d have to turn over our findings to the Ministry of Justice. It would be up to them to act on it, and there’s no guarantee when it comes to someone like Rashid al-Umari. I mean, he’s connected to everyone, and he has the money to make things happen.”

“So in other words, twenty-five Islamic extremists legally purchased an oil refinery in southern Iraq, and we can’t do a damn thing about it.”

“Well, we don’t know for a fact that they’re all extremists, but it’s starting to look that way. And there’s something else. According to records, the refinery and the land were valued at more than one hundred forty million dollars, but only sold for half that amount.”

Kealey thought about that for a second. “I’m guessing al-Umari needed cash in a hurry. Most of his net worth is probably tied up in land and infrastructure.”

She nodded her agreement. “That would make sense. Anyway, we’re still working with the FATF to track those funds. Of course, the Agency is playing a more direct role in the hunt for the man himself.”

“I take it you haven’t found a connection between Kassem and al-Umari.”

“Not yet, but it’s still early.”

“There’s something there,” Kealey muttered. “I’d stake my life on it.”

Unfortunately, Harper wasn’t going to allocate resources based on a hunch, which left them with just one lead: Anthony Mason’s laptop. Kealey told her about it, as well as about what had transpired in Alexandria.

Her eyes were wide when he finished the story. “You’re right. That is a huge coincidence. How did the Bureau suddenly get his location? And why were they so eager to storm the building?”

“I don’t know,” Kealey answered, “but I plan on finding out.” He drank a little more of his beer and sat quietly for a moment, his gaze drifting around the room. The old couple had left, their empty glasses lined up in a neat row. The bartender appeared to have lost all interest. The young woman in the oversized sweatshirt was working on a huge glass of clear liquid that couldn’t possibly be vodka, though she was starting to look a little unsteady…

He turned back to Kharmai. “Listen, where did they put you?”

She shrugged. “Nowhere in particular, but I was planning on working out of the CTC tomorrow.”

“Davidson has the laptop,” Kealey said, referring to the head analyst at the DST. “Do me a favor and check it out, will you? I really need to know if anything’s on there.”

“Sure. I’ll look at it first thing in the morning.”

“Thanks,” he said distractedly. He looked at his beer and seemed surprised to find it had hardly been touched. Watching this, Naomi couldn’t help but wonder again what was going on with him. He was the same in so many ways — the same neat movements, the same slightly distant personality that others might mistake for arrogance — but something was definitely wrong. Whatever it was, she didn’t have long to figure it out. Her curiosity wouldn’t allow her to wait another day for the answer, but he was clearly exhausted and ready to call it a night.

“So… what else have you been up to?” she asked.

He seemed to hesitate, then cast her a wary glance. “How much did Harper tell you?”

“Everything.”

With her one-word response, some of the tension dropped from his face, as though they had narrowly avoided some dangerous topic. Still, she noticed that he remained on edge, as though he expected her to say something more. Once again, she felt herself wondering…

“What’s it like over there?”

“Iraq?” He shrugged in a way that suggested he didn’t want to discuss it. “It’s kind of hard to explain.”

“Do you have to go back?”

“I don’t know. Probably not.” Kealey didn’t expand on this, but the truth was that a return to Iraq would be extremely dangerous for him. If the leaders of the insurgency were to learn of his involvement in the kidnapping of Arshad Kassem, they would stop at nothing to get their hands on him. From a broader perspective, things could much worse; if it ever came out that the CIA had been directly involved in the death of a leading Sunni cleric, Kassem would suddenly look like a saint on both sides of the Atlantic.

“So,” Kealey said, trying to shift the burden of conversation. “What about you? How do you like living in England?”

She went on for a short while, warmed by the wine, talking about Liz Peterson and the other people she’d grown close to in London, as well as the resurrection of old friendships. It became clear after a few minutes that, despite her love of the city, she was desperate to get back to the States on a more permanent basis. He followed the more interesting things she had to say, nodding along on occasion, nursing his beer in the process.

After a while his attention wandered, his eyes roving around the bar. Naomi took the opportunity to shoot another quick glance at his bare left hand. Once more she forced the question down, but it kept coming up. She knew it would be completely inappropriate to ask, but she had to know, and there was only one way to find out…

“So, how’s Katie?”

She tried to pass it off as a casual question and began to look away, as if the answer was only mildly interesting, but his reaction caught her completely off-guard. His head whipped around, his dark gray eyes finding hers with the first real look he’d given her all night. Taken aback, she only caught part of what happened next: he started to hunch over slightly, as if he’d been kicked in the stomach, and his face contorted in a way that defied the rules of human expression. Belatedly, Naomi realized that she’d missed something important.