Carrie's run

CHAPTER 34

Al-Jumariyah Bridge, Baghdad, Iraq

“Give me some good news, Perry,” Carrie said, slumping into a chair in Dreyer’s office in the Convention Center, wearing jeans, her black abaya slung over her arm. It was late afternoon, the sun low behind the buildings on Fourteenth of July Street, casting shadows across the soccer pitch, more dirt than grass, that his office window looked out on through venetian blinds. “Do we have an appointment with al-Waliki yet?”

“Not yet. The ambassador’s adamant. He says dealing with the Iraqis is like negotiating with a basket of eels. He wants only a single message coming from us. The president supports him. In fact, he’s meeting with the new prime minister tomorrow,” Dreyer said, making a face.

“Well, the message to al-Waliki is going to be that he’s dead! And Benson too! What about Saul? David? The director?”

“They tried and got shot down. It’s Benson’s show. How much time have we got?”

“Tomorrow. It all happens tomorrow.”

“You’re certain? What’s the probability?”

“Now you sound like Langley,” she said. “Ninety-nine percent. Is that close enough for everyone? And as for Benson, if you can’t get me, him and al-Waliki in the same damn room, tomorrow’s his last day on earth.”

“How can you be sure? They’re both going to be here, inside the Convention Center. Both well guarded. How are the AQI fighters going to get in?”

“They don’t have to get in.”

“What are you talking about?”

“They’re already inside. They’re here now,” she said, inclining her head toward the center of the building.

“Meaning. .” She watched him work his way around to it. “The ISF. They’ve infiltrated the Iraqi Security Forces. They’re going to be killed by the people assigned to protect them,” he said.

“According to our guy Warzer, most of the ISF providing security for Iraqi government officials live in trailers or in squatters’ apartments inside villas in the Green Zone that were abandoned by Ba’ath Party officials when Saddam fell. They’re already here.”

Dreyer sat back in his chair and looked at her the way she imagined a basketball coach looked at one of his players who was about to try a three-pointer at the buzzer.

“You sure about this?”

“It’s actionable.”

“How the hell did you find this out?” he asked.

“As you know and Washington can’t seem to understand, the thing about the Middle East is that it’s not a region of countries; it’s a cockpit of tribes,” she said. “Our man Warzer is a member of the Dulaimi tribe from Ramadi; he’s a Sunni, living in Adhamiya. He’s also not stupid. He can see which way the wind is blowing in Iraq, and right now, it’s blowing for the Shiites. We Americans did that-and it scares the shit out of him. So he needs a Get Out of Jail Free card in case it all goes bad-and that means asylum in America. So he needs to make himself as useful to us as possible.”

“Get to the point.”

“Warzer’s been cultivating as a possible asset a fellow tribesman who’s a member of the ISF, Iraqi Security Forces, but with some questionable contacts. For me that means there’s no way he won’t at least know someone in AQI. This guy also lives in Adhamiya. His name is Karrar Yassim.

“I spoke briefly with Yassim’s wife. She’s scared to death. Scared of the Shiites, the Mahdi Army, and of us. She confirmed what we already suspected: some new additions, Dulaimi jihadis, to the ISF guards assigned to protect al-Waliki here inside the Green Zone and the Convention Center. This isn’t rocket science, Perry; it’s murder. Can you get me that meeting with al-Waliki or not?” she said.

“All right,” he said, exhaling and clasping his hands together. “I’ll try again.”

“Good. Because saving Benson’s ass or even al-Waliki is not the most important thing on my mind.”

“Oh? What is?”

“Killing Abu Ubaida. This time I’m going to get him,” she said.

Through the night-vision binoculars, she watched the mujahideen enter the building on Abu Nuw’as Street one by one. The street ran along the east bank of the river and was shrouded in darkness; the entire eastern part of the city was suffering one of the electrical power outages that plagued it daily. They were heavily armed; it looked like mostly AKMs and RPGs, she thought. One of them carried a big tubelike weapon, followed by two men who were carrying something bulky on their backs.

“What’s he carrying?” she asked.

“Shit,” muttered Colonel Salazar, commander of the Third Infantry Division’s Fourth Brigade, charged with primary responsibility for the defense of the Green Zone. “Could be an AT-13 Saxhorn. Russian, dammit.”

“What’s it for?”

“It’s a tank killer.” He pulled off his night-vision goggles and looked at Carrie in moonlight reflected from the river, the only light available in the darkened room in the Iraqi parliament building on the west bank of the river, which they were using as an observation post. “I don’t like this idea of letting them cross the river into the Green Zone.”

“I know, Colonel,” she said. “But take them out now and the threat remains, only next time we may not know they’re coming. Ten-to-one Abu Ubaida is with them now. You give me a team to kill him and we cut off one of AQI’s hands in Iraq. When we kill Abu Nazir, that’ll be the other hand.”

“You’re saying the main attack will come right across al-Jumariyah Bridge tomorrow?”

“I’m not sure what their tactics are. They might send a few men over tonight to take out whoever is guarding this side of the bridge tomorrow. You would understand that better than I, Colonel. But yes, the main attack to breach the Green Zone will be at the Assassin’s Gate. Our informant confirmed they were training for that in Ramadi. Watching them go into that building across the river confirms it.”

“What about Abu Ubaida? Where will he be?” Lieutenant Colonel Leslie, the colonel’s executive officer, asked.

“Either right where we’re looking, that building on the other side of the river, or here, the children’s hospital on Haifa Street, right next to the Assassin’s Gate checkpoint,” Sergeant Major Coogan put in, pointing at the map location on his laptop screen, which glowed in the darkness.

“We should just call in the Air Force. Obliterate the damn building,” Leslie said, jerking his chin in the direction of the building across the river.

“And how would we know he’s dead?” Carrie asked. “That’s why I’m here. So when your men kill him, I can make a positive ID.”

Colonel Salazar studied her in the moonlight, his cropped salt-and-pepper hair darker than it would have been in the light. He had a no-nonsense, slightly bulldog-type face. Intelligent, Carrie thought.

“All right, Miss Mathison. You know this creep better than any of us. Where do you think he’ll be tomorrow?” he asked.

“I think your sergeant major’s right, Colonel. The children’s hospital. He’ll be close to what’s happening at the checkpoint and the Convention Center, but not directly in the line of fire himself. Possibly disguised as one of the staff.”

“One of the doctors maybe?” Colonel Salazar suggested.

“That’s exactly the kind of thing he’d do,” she nodded.

“So we’ll need you with whoever we put in there to make sure we don’t shoot the wrong medico?” Leslie said. “That checkpoint’ll be a kill zone, miss. It’s going to get pretty damned hairy. I know you’re CIA and all, but no offense, are you sure you’re up for this?”

“I just got back from Ramadi. I know exactly what I’m in for. And trust me, I won’t be going in front. I’ll be well behind the soldiers you send in. And, Colonel,” she said, looking at Salazar, “please don’t underestimate Abu Ubaida. He’s not just some raghead; he’s smart as hell. And he’s only a tenth as smart as Abu Nazir.”

“I won’t,” Colonel Salazar said, eyes narrowed. “At least, thanks to you, for once we have the element of surprise on our side. We’re giving you a Special Forces Group unit for the hospital. The best we’ve got. Who’s leading it?” he asked Leslie.

“Captain Mullins. Second Battalion,” Leslie said.

“Good man. If anyone can protect you and get this son of a bitch, he will,” Colonel Salazar said.

“What about the secretary of state?” Carrie asked.

“Politicians.” Colonel Salazar grimaced. “We’ll try to keep her at Camp Victory while we sweep the Amiriyah district with enough force to make the insurgents keep their heads down until we settle what’s happening in the Green Zone. But obviously, no one, including General Casey himself, can tell her what to do or where she can or cannot go.”

“When’s her plane due in?” she asked.

“Last I heard, oh nine oh five hours,” Leslie said. He checked his watch. “Eight hours from now. Not much time to get everything set up.”

“The key is the Assassin’s Gate,” Carrie said. “I assume you’ll have plenty to stop them there? They’re going to try to force their way through to the Convention Center.”

Lieutenant Colonel Leslie nodded. “Plenty, including a platoon of Abrams tanks and a couple of Bradley APCs that we’ll move in behind them. Once they’re in the killing zone, they stay there.”

She turned to Colonel Salazar. “Colonel, this Russian missile we saw? Would an Abrams tank survive if it was hit with one of those things?” she asked.

“Possibly,” he said. “Depends on a number of different factors. Assuming the missile hits the tank, where it hits, the tank’s MCD defenses, a number of things.”

“What about a Bradley? Would it survive?”

“Not a chance.”