In the European edition of the London Times, however, Vanderveen found a much more interesting article. An investigative journalist in Karbala had uncovered the circumspect sale of an oil refinery east of Samawah. The refinery, originally owned by Rashid al-Umari and the Southern Iraqi Oil Company, had been sold to a conglomerate of Sunni investors, several of whom had direct ties to Iranian president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. The New York Times had picked up the story on the AP, as had every other major newspaper in North America and Western Europe.
In response, Ahmadinejad aired a speech in which he denied Iranian involvement, but praised Moqtadr al-Sadr and the Mahdi Army for what he described as “God’s work in ridding Iraq of the Zionist invaders.” That Nuri al-Maliki — the Shiite prime minister — had also been targeted in the recent wave of attacks seemed to have escaped the Iranian leader’s attention, but his remarks had had the expected effect. The U.S. ambassador to the United Nations called for a full inquiry into the circumstances surrounding the death of Nasir al-Din Tabrizi in Paris, and a former secretary of state appeared on Meet the Press, where he stated his belief that Iran was actively working to undermine U.S. policy in Iraq. He also remarked that such activities would not go unchecked by “this or any other administration.”
Vanderveen folded the newspapers and absently sipped his coffee, which tasted as if it had been made several hours earlier. Everything was working according to plan. The Iranians were under escalating suspicion, and the various factions in Iraq were at each other’s throats. The American troops were caught in the middle and sustaining huge losses with each passing day. Once the delegation in New York was taken out, Iraq would almost certainly slide into civil war. Izzat al-Douri was about to get his wish.
Thunder overhead pulled him out of his reverie. He glanced at his watch. Raseen, catching the gesture, looked over her shoulder. Tourists were clustered on the other side of the square, standing around the Brandenburg Gate, apparently unaware that there was a much grander specimen — with the same name, no less — on the Pariser Platz in Berlin, just a few kilometers to the east. Most of the tourists were toting cameras and daypacks, and a few carried umbrellas in anticipation of the building storm. As Vanderveen watched, one man walked to the center of the square, turned, and fired off a series of shots with a digital camera.
“That isn’t him,” Raseen remarked softly, her eyes trained on the figure in the near distance.
“He’s wearing the right clothes, but that isn’t Rühmann. Why didn’t he come?”
Vanderveen slowly shook his head. He hadn’t really expected the Austrian to show up in person.
The man standing in the center of the square, looking around impatiently, without a hint of subtlety, was Karl Lang, Rühmann’s bodyguard and personal assistant. His picture and background information were in the file they’d been given the previous day. Before leaving London, Vanderveen had memorized the contents and dropped the file down a grate on the King’s Road.
“I’m not sure,” he said, raising a hand to wave Lang over. “But this man is here for us, so let’s say hello.”
Lang was in his late thirties, short and heavily built. An expensive Nikon was draped around his neck, the strap tucked under the grimy collar of a light cotton jacket. His features were strangely androgynous, not in keeping with the rest of his body. As he walked to the table, he removed a blue daypack from his shoulders. Once he was seated, he tossed it casually under the table, where it landed next to a nearly identical pack.
“How did you get here?” he asked in English. His tone was distinctly confrontational.
“We have a car,” Raseen told him. “No one followed us.”
Lang snorted but did not reply.
“Where is Rühmann?” Vanderveen asked. “I was told he would be here.”
The words earned him a disdainful look. “My employer is a very important man. He can’t afford to waste time dealing with trivialities. Besides, meetings are dangerous. This could have been handled over the phone.”
“What about the key to the storage facility?”
“That could have been sent by mail.” The man leaned forward, his face pinched in anger. “Let’s get something straight. I don’t want to be here, and you don’t impress me. For a professional, you take a lot of foolish risks. I know who you are, Vanderveen, and so does Herr Rühmann. Did you honestly believe that he wouldn’t learn your identity? How do you think he lasted this long?”
“Certainly not by employing arrogant little shits like you,” Vanderveen replied in a calm, measured voice. The German bridled instantly, reaching over the table, but Raseen quickly batted his hand away.
“Stop it,” she hissed, glaring at each of them in turn. “We’re in the middle of a public square.”
She focused her cold gaze on the courier, and there was something in her face that made him sit back instantly. “Since you’re here, I assume you’ve received the final payment.”
“Yes. The wire transfer came in yesterday,” Lang confirmed. “The key is in the pack. It will open a ground-level unit at the Lake Forest storage facility in Montreal. Unit 124, to be precise.
Directions from Montreal-Trudeau are in there as well, along with an invoice for the boiler. All that leaves is the equipment. You know what you need, correct?”
“A truck and a forklift,” Vanderveen replied.
“That’s right.” Lang had a pedantic way of speaking, as though he were addressing a child. “But not just any truck and forklift. It’s important that you get it right, or you won’t be able to move the device, at least not safely. The truck needs to have a gross vehicle weight rating of at least thirty thousand pounds, with multi—”
“Multi-leaf spring shocks, I know. And a pneumatic forklift rated at twenty thousand pounds.
I’m well aware of the specifications.”
Lang’s face tightened into a sneer. “Well, you seem to be very well informed, which only proves my point. This meeting was entirely unnecessary.” He nodded toward the clear glass table, beneath which both packs were clearly visible. “You have what you need. We’ve received the money. Is there anything else?”
Vanderveen smiled pleasantly. “No, that should do it. Thanks for your time.”
“Right,” Lang said curtly. He retrieved the pack that Vanderveen had brought, stood, and walked away.
“What a nice man,” Raseen remarked, her voice heavy with sarcasm. “You know, I don’t think Mr. Rühmann is too pleased with us.”
“Well, he doesn’t really know us, does he? Let’s see how he feels in a few hours. Maybe we can improve his disposition.”
After paying the check, they started back toward the car, which was parked on the other side of the Brandenburg Gate. As they walked, Vanderveen retrieved the satellite phone from his pocket and punched in a number.
“Who are you calling?”
“A friend in Manhattan.” He looked over. “We need to find a copying place. Any ideas?”
“There’s one on the Charlottenstrasse. I saw it when we left the car.”
“Good. I need to send him something.”
CHAPTER 37
NEW YORK CITY
It was just after 10:00 AM in a warm, cluttered office in the garment district of Manhattan. The room was enclosed by low cement walls and glass panes, the interior blinds pulled down. There was almost no natural light in the room, owing to the height of the surrounding buildings. On the other side of the glass, Amir Nazeri could hear his employees at work: the low rumble of voices, the whine of a small forklift, the thump of heavy pallets hitting the smooth cement floor. Behind him was the steady rumble of morning traffic on West Thirty-seventh Street. Caught in the middle, Nazeri was lost to the sounds, immune to the racket that constituted his daily work environment. As he flipped through the accumulated mail, his telephone rang. He looked up, startled. The sound caused a ripple of apprehension to run through his body, just as it had done for the past several weeks. He hesitated for a long moment before reaching for the receiver.