Judd was silent, feeling a cold wash of fear for Eva.

"I should've been a general," Hilu announced brightly behind them. "I've just orchestrated a magnificent campaign to get us inside the museum compound. We're going to have to change both of your appearances, but I'm hopeful we can make this work."

78.

The river reeked, stinging Eva's nose. Garbage bobbed on the surface, visible in the light of the moon and the bright mercury vapor lights of a refinery near the beach. She was seated on the deck of a yacht near the bow, her back to a metal post bolted to the wood planking. Her hands were bound tightly behind the post. She struggled against them. The ribs on her right side ached. Inwardly she cursed.

"We should've disconnected the SUV's b.l.o.o.d.y air bags." Morgan was tied to a post six feet away from her. His cadaverous face was gray in the light.

"This is a new experience I would've happily skipped." She twisted her wrists, hoping the rope would loosen, but all she accomplished was giving herself rope burn and a sharp pain in the ribs.

Repressing the discomfort, she studied the riverbank. It was not moving, which meant the yacht was probably anch.o.r.ed. Judging from the gradual flow of the refuse and the location of the moon, the river was running west to east here. Downriver, a bridge carried traffic across to the greatest glow of light in the night sky-the city's center, to the north. Other than the refinery, she could see no other lights near them.

The six Iraqi men onboard were making such a racket that the bank along this portion of the river must be as isolated as it was dark. Three were opening wood crates on the deck with pry bars, hammers, and axes, and unpacking them quickly and noisily. Metal parts thudded and clanked as they landed on the deck. Eva wondered why the men had bothered to dress in dark clothing; anyone close enough to see them would hear them first.

One man handed small crates up onto the deck from the dory that had delivered Eva and Morgan to the yacht. Two men wrestled with what looked to Eva like an enormous sewage pipe, perhaps six feet long.

She had an un.o.bstructed view of the Iraqis' operation because the deck between her and them was open and empty, no masts or superstructure except for the wheelhouse toward the stern. When they had arrived, there had been a dozen small tables, stackable chairs, and benches. While some of the men opened crates, others had quickly pushed the furniture to both sides of the deck.

"A party boat," Morgan had explained.

The crates emptied, the men broke into two groups of three and began a.s.sembling some kind of equipment.

"What are they doing?" Eva asked.

"See those long tubes? Looks to me as if the Iraqis are setting up mortars. If I'm right, they're huge, the kind you have to tow behind a truck."

Moments later, the three at one of the positions joined the other team and lifted a tube into a nearly vertical position. It was taller than the tallest of the men holding it, close to seven feet. While they stabilized it, the others secured parts to its side and base. Once the gun was up, they went to work at the other site.

"So you're a munitions expert now," Eva said. "I thought you only slit people's throats."

"I slit the throats of the disrespectful, so remember that." He was silent for a moment, perhaps mulling over Eva's sarcasm. "Let's just say I've made mortars a hobby and found them useful. The ones here look like 150- or 160-millimeter."

Once again the Iraqi men split up; some headed back to their individual guns while others returned to the unopened crates. As the men broke open the crates, Eva could see more cylinders, this time smaller-and they had fins. The men carried them to the mortar positions and stacked them.

"Strix smart rounds," Morgan told her. "The Swedes make them. Once they're aloft, their fins move to correct their trajectory. They can be laser- or GPS-directed. They're nasty, powerful things."

"What's their range?" Eva said nervously.

"Seven miles in neutral air-that means no wind. Normally each round carries thirty-two bomblets. If these are the new Iranian mortars, they can launch up to eight rounds a minute. That's faster than a sneeze. It'll be b.l.o.o.d.y rough on the receiving end."

"Have they said what they're shooting at?" She was frustrated because she understood so little Arabic.

"They aren't talking much. They seem to know exactly what to do, and they just do it. They've finished the mechanical a.s.sembly. They're moving on to what looks like the electronics. You can see a computer screen glowing at the base of each mortar." A minute pa.s.sed. "One of them mentioned an emba.s.sy, but didn't name it."

"The direction of the tubes looks as if they're aiming into the city, doesn't it?"

"c.r.a.p. One of them just said the target was the U.S. Emba.s.sy."

"Oh, G.o.d, no!"

Morgan's expression was grim. "Have you seen the emba.s.sy?" When she shook her head, he said, "Never accuse a Yank of being modest. It's a heavily fortified compound the size of Vatican City. It's got high walls, guard towers, machine-gun emplacements, rings of security, and doors like bank vaults. There are more than twenty buildings, including apartments, a couple of gyms and swimming pools, shops, bars, restaurants, offices, meeting rooms, and its own power station and water- and waste-treatment facilities. If that sounds like the most expensive and largest and most secured emba.s.sy the world's ever seen, it's because it is."

"You think the mortars are big enough to do serious damage?"

He stared at her. "There are something like fifteen thousand people there, all crammed into one and a half square miles, and those mortars are serious enough to cut through heavy steel like it's b.u.t.ter. What do you think?"

"I think we'd better d.a.m.n well do something!"

79.

Bright with light, the vast exhibit hall in the National Museum of Iraq was filling with people. It was a very different scene from the one in 2003 when the six a.s.sa.s.sins broke in to steal the cuneiform tablet. The hall had rung with emptiness then, and the only illumination had been moonlight filtering down through high windows, barely touching the gloom. Looting had left display cases and shelves smashed and empty.

Tonight, that terrible time was nowhere in evidence. Ancient statues stood on marble pedestals, showcases displayed important artifacts, and gla.s.s shelves presented exhibits chronicling the ill.u.s.trious history of Mesopotamia. Many of the guests were members of the Iraqi parliament and their spouses. There were also museum officials and local dignitaries. The third contingent was foreigners.

The scent of expensive perfumes drifted toward where Judd, Bosa, and Hilu stood in line, waiting to be allowed through the guards' checkpoint. They had already been inspected by backscatter X-rays to detect hidden weapons and explosives. To be unarmed made Judd more than a little uneasy. He scanned, hoping for an opportunity to relieve one of the guards of his gun.

At last they reached the front of the line, where a young sentry stood with a clipboard and a felt-tip pen.

"Si, yes. It is all true." Wearing a curly white-gray wig and gesturing with a conductor's flamboyance, Bosa peered up from his wheelchair at the museum security guard and lifted his VIP badge so the young man could more easily read it. "You are very handsome, Signore Guard. Do you sing?" With prosthetic inserts to widen his nose and makeup to tan his face and hands, Bosa was transformed into a nonexistent person: Rene San Martino, Italian maestro. "As Hilu told you, I am general manager of the Italian-American Heritage Chorus-"

"Shukraan, Mr. San Martino." Thanks. He checked off San Martino's name on a clipboard and turned to Judd. "And you are, sir?"

"I'm the American manager of the Italian-American Heritage Chorus," Judd lied. His light brown hair had been shaved off completely-he was bald. His eyebrows were dyed black, his hazel eyes darkened with contact lenses, and his mouth widened and enlarged with prostheses. "Brad Chastain, at your service, from Philly. We're hoping to-"

"Shukraan, Mr. Chastain." The guard found Judd's cover name, checked it off, and gestured to Hilu, who was on the manifest as their official escort. "You can go in." He beckoned to the next guests in line to step forward.

With Hilu pushing Bosa's wheelchair, they moved into the exhibit hall. Judd heard at least four different languages and, of course, Sunni and Shiite accents. The place was packed, the noise a rush of excitement.

Judd studied the layout. A temporary stage had been erected at the far end of the room. Halfway there, on facing walls, hung large screens to televise the speeches so those who were distant could have close-up and personal views. Audio speakers were fastened discreetly high in the corners. At the moment, they were softly playing Arab music.

Bosa was glancing across the room. "Hilu, do you see the small blonde woman to our right?" She appeared to be in her late fifties, an attractive woman with a round figure, turned-up nose, and blue eyes. She was chatting with two Iraqi women. "There's something familiar about her. Who is she?" Bosa asked.

"She's al-Sabah's wife," Hilu said. "Her name is Zahra. Very popular among the women. Usually she's veiled. The only times I see her without one is at an event like this."

"Zahra," Judd repeated. "In English, that's 'Rose.'"

"In Russian, it's 'Roza,'" Bosa said. "I'll be d.a.m.ned. She's Roza Levinchev-Katia's mother. I recognize her from the old days."

For a moment, Judd and Bosa were silent.

"All three of them must've been here in Baghdad," Judd said. "Seymour, Roza, and Grigori. Why didn't they tell Katia?"

"Roza apparently wanted her daughter to think she was dead," Bosa said. "Other than that, you'd have to ask her."

"And now she's Zahra, Seymour's wife." Judd shook his head.

"Let's follow her around, Hilu," Bosa said. "She'll lead us to him."

They angled to the right, always keeping Zahra in view as she greeted women friends. She chatted, she laughed, she touched their arms.

The crowd opened enough that they could see Tariq Tabrizi making his way toward a stage that had been erected at the other end of the room.

"Stop here," Bosa said.

Judd saw he was studying Tabrizi.

"Now I understand why Morgan was interested in Tabrizi when we were watching the videos of him and Seymour on the plane," Bosa said. "Seeing Tabrizi is like looking at a ghost."

"What do you mean?" Judd asked.

Bosa crooked a finger, and Judd and Hilu crouched together beside the wheelchair.

Bosa leaned close. "Hilu, listen while I talk to Judd." Then to Judd: "Remember how this whole mess started with Saddam when he hired a major financier to hide his fortune?" It was a rhetorical question, because he continued without waiting for Judd to answer: "The financier divided the money into six sections and hired five more financiers. Each stashed their portion. Only Saddam and the head financier knew where all of the parts were. So Saddam hired Morgan to put together a team of six a.s.sa.s.sins, each to eliminate one of the moneymen. Morgan can be an obliging sort, so when Seymour asked that his target be the top financier, Morgan agreed. Afterward, everyone reported their wet jobs were successful. Then when Saddam was executed, no one could find the bulk of his money. It was believed the information died with him."

"It's not Saddam's money," Hilu corrected angrily. "Many billions are still missing, and they belong to the people of Iraq."

"True," Bosa said. "In any case, the money isn't missing now. Tariq Tabrizi can tell you where it is. Every dirham, every penny, every euro. All of it."

Judd frowned. "What are you saying?"

"Tabrizi is the London financier who was responsible for hiding Saddam's money," Bosa explained. "His real name is Toma Asker-Professor Toma Asker. He was one of the highest-flying, most successful moneymakers and managers in Europe. Instead of erasing him, my guess is Seymour helped him to vanish because there was something in it for him-probably money and maybe the political arrangement we're seeing now between them."

"Tabrizi is trying to buy a new job for himself-prime minister of Iraq," Hilu said.

"Agreed," Judd told him. "We need to figure out a way to expose him."

As Judd and Hilu stood, the U.S. amba.s.sador and the current Iraqi prime minister climbed on stage, followed by Tabrizi. Tabrizi shook hands with both men, then the three stood in a row facing the audience. It was apparent Tabrizi and Prime Minister al-Lami disliked each other, while the amba.s.sador had placed himself between them. Cameramen were taping. Journalists were recording and taking notes.

Al-Sabah-Seymour-finally appeared through an archway. He entered the crowd, greeting and making brief comments. He was far more impressive in person than he had been in the video. His face was open, his beard and mustache trimmed closely, his head at a happy, c.o.c.ky angle. He was smiling an inviting smile, and it seemed when partygoers spotted him, they moved toward him. He radiated the sort of charismatic energy that attracted people, made them want to talk to him, agree with him, follow him.

Close behind came a curly-haired man with a mustache and a muscular, athletic walk that spoke of strength and persistence. There was a bulge under his arm, and he surveyed the room as if looking for trouble. He must be al-Sabah's bodyguard. Judd's fingers itched, wanting his Beretta.

Al-Sabah was getting closer to them. Judd felt a moment of nervousness that al-Sabah might recognize Bosa and him, despite their disguises.

Just then, Judd's smartphone vibrated. h.e.l.l. He would check the call later. He slid his hand inside his jacket pocket and touched the b.u.t.ton that stopped the vibration.

Bosa told Hilu to get al-Sabah's attention. Hilu called out al-Sabah's name.

Al-Sabah turned. When he saw it was Hilu, he walked toward him. "You are well?"

They pressed their hands against their hearts.

"Very well, thank you."

Bosa cleared his throat. Hilu introduced him to al-Sabah.

"I understand that you like the fine cigars," Bosa told him in his best Italian accent. He held up two fat cigars, each a rich dark brown color and encased in a gla.s.s tube. "You have met the HMR?"

Staring at the cigars, al-Sabah said reverently, "Gurkha His Majesty's Reserve."

"Si, si." Bosa gave him a confidential smile, one gourmand to another. "A secret blend of premium tobaccos from all over the world covered by a rare aged Dominican wrapper and infused with an entire bottle of Louis XIII, an extraordinary cognac. As you must know, fewer than a hundred boxes a year are produced, but then their standards are the highest." Each cigar also cost about $750. The Carnivore liked the best, and so did Seymour. "I was fortunate to be allowed to purchase a box. I am happy to offer you a cigar. Care to join me outdoors to smoke? It is a grand and starry night."

Al-Sabah's gray eyebrows rose. He looked around. The American amba.s.sador was introducing the two candidates. Cameras were whirring. Reporters were making notes. The audience was busy listening. Zahra had joined a large group of women.

"A pleasure," al-Sabah told Bosa, and seemed to mean it. "This way." He walked toward a patio door.

The bodyguard followed through the throng. Next came Bosa with Hilu pushing his wheelchair. Judd took one final look around and caught up with them.

80.

The yacht bobbed gently at anchor. The six Iraqis continued their work a.s.sembling the mortars on the deck.

"I'm almost ready," Morgan whispered.

"What?" Eva looked at him, really looked. He was freeing his hands. "How did you-?"

He shushed her. "Don't stare at me."

Eva peered back at the Iraqis, who were concentrating on their mortars.

"They weren't expecting prisoners," Morgan continued, "so they used ordinary rope, and they're not trained guards so they didn't take my belt-with the razor blade in it. Before they tied me up, I dug the razor blade out and hid it between my fingers. We've got to warn Bosa and Judd what they're planning for the emba.s.sy. I want you to start making a row, get at least one of them to come here. I'll give you Arabic insults to yell at them. With luck, whoever comes will have a gun and a cell. When he gets close enough, kick him in the pills. I'll cut you loose. While I search him for a gun, you search him for a cell. If you find one, run to the bow and jump over. Hold the cell high, and keep it dry. Then start phoning. If the guy doesn't have a cell, stay close until we can find one. Got it?"

"Why do I jump over the bow? The sides are closer."

"The bow is farther from them, and it's long and sculpted, which means it's got a decent overhang to protect you from gunfire. Of course, you're going to have to be smart and stay under it. Don't get entrepreneurial." His thin frame was intense, his gaze sweeping the yacht then studying the Iraqis. "As soon as you get a phone, go. Don't look back or wait for me."

"And what will you be doing while I'm running and phoning and treading water?"

"I'll be keeping them distracted."