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 leaned forward. “For five years, Rashid, I have eluded capture. I have done what I could to strengthen the mujahideen, to unite our brothers against the Zionist invaders. I would like to think that I’ve made a difference.”
“How could you think otherwise?” al-Umari demanded.
The older man nodded once, acknowledging the compliment. “Still,” he continued, “the war hurts most those who are willing to fight it. You know this as well as I.”
The statement, carefully calculated, seemed to cause Rashid al-Umari physical pain.
“They have taken everything from us, my friend, but we have not backed down,” al-Douri continued. “As we speak, two of my own sons are in Samarra, rallying our forces. Our funds have been seized, and still, we rail against the invaders.”
Al-Douri’s eyes were fixed on his prey. “I would not believe,” he murmured, “that a man of your great wealth, Rashid, would turn his back on his brothers in their hour of need. I do not believe that after enduring so much, you would not fully dedicate yourself to those who require your assistance. The faithful rely on those who are willing to fight. Iraq is rightfully theirs, but they cannot take it themselves. They rely on the strong. Their sons and daughters rely on the strong. Would you deny them?”
“Never.” Rashid rasped the single word.
“Will you help us?”
“Yes. I will do what I can, gladly.”
“I had no doubt of it.” Al-Douri settled back in his chair and lifted his cup. A long moment passed. “I assume Kohl told you what was required.”
It seemed strange to talk about the man as if he were not present. The footsteps had ceased, but al-Umari could hear quiet breathing in the background. “Yes.”
“And you are ready to do your duty?”
“I am. I have come prepared.”
At this, al-Douri smiled, and for a split second, relief flashed in his eyes. He nodded to Vanderveen, almost imperceptibly, and the younger man left the room. A moment later he returned, the bodyguard trailing, phone in hand.
It was easily done; al-Umari had made most of the arrangements
