SIX
PROLOGUE
San Remo, Italian Riviera
Abe Keen had a lead. The freelance investigative reporter was involved in a project chasing down former members of Saddam Hussein’s administration, and he’d been working on his story for the past three months. Keen had succeeded in identifying and photographing four of the former dictator’s cabinet members who had managed to escape from Iraq as the coalition forces moved in. Working from tip-offs from his not-inconsiderable sources, Keen had journeyed to a villa on the Italian Riviera, where he was expecting to find a group of the hard-line inner circle. If the information was true and he managed to get the final batch of photographs, the journalist would have everything he needed to complete his series of articles.
Keen was perched on an outcrop overlooking the villa. From his vantage point, armed with his camera and telephoto lens, he was able to look down on the pool and the patio surrounding it. Three hours had passed, but as yet he’d seen nothing of significance.
He was used to long periods of inactivity. It came with the job. The great pictures seldom came easy. Not in Keen’s line of business. He wasn’t looking for that defining moment when the lens caught a fragment of life at its most fragile. Keen was a hunter. His life paralleled the man in the bush, stalking his prey and waiting for the right time to squeeze the trigger. It was often a long time coming, and one of the first things the hunter had to learn was patience. The ability to sit for long periods, doing nothing. Just waiting. Waiting for that split second when his quarry presented itself in the crosshairs. Keen had honed his craft over the years. Now it was part of him. Just as breathing was a natural function, so was Keen’s ability to let the moment come to him—and when it did he grasped it and froze it on film.
Below him there was movement on the poolside. First, the armed bodyguards. Even though the villa was behind high walls, with electronic warning systems, the bodyguards always came out and scanned the immediate area. They moved with the precise actions of men who breathed security. Once they had the poolside secure, they stood back while the principals came out and took their places around the table, talking among themselves.
Keen put his eye to the viewfinder of his 35mm camera, using the motor-driven, powerful telephoto lens to check out each of the four men around the table. As each one came into sharp focus, Keen pressed the release button and photographed him.
He knew them all well. They were all fedayeen, ex-members of Saddam Hussein’s regime, faithful carriers of the flame still dedicated to Iraq’s old guard. These men lived and breathed for the day they could return to Iraq and take up their former positions and rule the country once more. They were dreamers who closed their eyes to reality, fervently clinging to the tattered remains of a defeated and crushed dictatorship. Regardless of the inevitably of the outcome, they steadfastly refused to accept it.
Keen’s diligence had paid off. Here, now, he had his final proof. The four fedayeen were gathered in one place, most likely discussing their plans for a victorious return to Baghdad. Watching them, Keen decided it might even be sad if it wasn’t scary. These men were no amateurs. Far from being idealistic dreamers, they were hard, ruthless men, who had killed in the name of the old regime and who would kill again if the need arose. He had no doubts on that score. Whether or not they succeeded in their planned return to power, the quartet below would create a lot of death and suffering if they were allowed to carry on with their plans.
Sudden movement by the open sliding doors that led poolside caught Keen’s attention. He swung the camera lens in that direction and saw a tall, broad figure step out of the villa. The man was dressed in light clothing, his dark hair cut short against his skull. He paused as the bright sun caught him and raised a large hand to shield his face. He turned and crossed to the table where the four men had pushed to their feet. Keen watched as each man stepped forward to embrace the newcomer.
For a few moments the group stood talking, and then, as if by some invisible signal, the four returned to their seats and waited for the newcomer to join them. There was a spare seat at one end of the table. The man moved to it and sat. He stared around the table, at each man in turn, speaking to them individually. He finally sat back, placing his large hands flat on the table in front of him and for the first time raised his head, giving Keen the opportunity to focus on his face. As the lens brought the face into sharp relief Keen’s finger hovered over the release button, ready to take the photograph.
He froze, staring at the image the camera gave him. his finger hovered over the button as his disbelieving mind held him in immobility. He might have stayed that way if his professionalism hadn’t clicked in. His finger came down on the button and the camera took a succession of shots. It was only as the sound of the shuttering mechanism intruded that Keen snapped back to reality. He took his finger off the button and sat back, still taking in what he had seen.
To be precise, who he had seen—a man who had been pronounced and identified as dead during the war. The man had been killed during a running battle with an American Special Forces team in the northern Iraqi town of Tikrit. He had been found in the ruins of an official party headquarters, his body having taken the full force of a grenade. In a local hospital, a doctor had examined the body and carried out an autopsy. When his report had been delivered, it had identified the dead man.
Razan Khariza.
A colonel in Hussein’s military, Khariza had been hated and despised for his treatment of Iraqi citizens. He had a penchant for torture. For devising and utilizing terrible means for extracting information, or for simply inflicting pain on those who stood up against the former regime. Khariza was a man who had little respect for his own people. He had willingly participated in purges within the administration, turning against people he had previously called friends. In his other capacity he had undertaken the purchase and importation of weapons and technology aimed at improving Iraq’s offensive ordnance. Khariza had traveled extensively on behalf of the regime, making and fostering contacts in a number of countries and with individuals able to arrange the purchase of weapons and equipment.
He had supposedly been killed during the hostilities.
But here he was, alive and well, heading a meeting with the very men he had commanded during the time he had served the former dictator of Iraq.
Now, with the image still large in his viewfinder, Keen realized he had stumbled on to something big. He had no doubt he was looking at Khariza. He knew the man’s face well. This was no lookalike. Razan Khariza had never used a double. There had been no need. He’d never had high a profile. His work was done in the shadows, out of the light of day. And if he was dead, what would be the purpose of someone impersonating him? There would be no logic to that. A double might have the appearance but wouldn’t
