After a time he set off, walking north on 17th Street. From her position, she had a visual on her target for a long time. He broke into a run somewhere north of S Street, but then turned a moment later, fading from sight. Raseen wasn’t concerned at all. She knew that he’d retrace his route exactly. She’d seen him do it on each of the past four mornings, albeit from a much greater distance. She no longer needed the binoculars, for when he returned in forty minutes or so, she’d be ready to greet him in person.
She found her right hand reaching out to touch the butt of her gun. Amir Nazeri had provided her with the Beretta .22 shortly before his death in New York. The plastic grip was cold to the touch, but she took comfort from it nonetheless. The weapon was resting on the passenger seat, covered by the previous day’s copy of the Washington Post. The newspaper had been in the truck when she’d popped the lock. Her first act had been to flip the paper over, as the lurid headlines were hard for her to take. Izzat al-Douri had been shot to death at a border crossing in Al Anbar Province two days earlier, along with his chief advisor, Tahir Jalil Habbush al-Tikriti, the former director of the Iraqi Intelligence Service.
Yasmin Raseen had known both men for many years, al-Douri since she was just a girl. While she had yet to shed any tears over their deaths, she couldn’t help but feel a distinct, but strangely indirect sense of loss. Since they’d been part of her father’s life, they were part of hers, and with their passing, she felt a little more alone in the world. And there was something else to consider: al-Douri had been her primary benefactor since her father’s capture near Tikrit, along with the last of the money he’d managed to personally carry out of the Central Bank before the fall of Baghdad. With al-Douri’s passing, she was left with very limited means. There was no doubt in her mind that the Americans were responsible for the assassination of both men, even though al-Douri had yet to be publicly linked to the recent events in Baghdad, Paris, and New York.
As she waited for Jonathan Harper to return, her thoughts began to drift. Before long, they turned to Will Vanderveen, which didn’t surprise her at all. Over the past several weeks, he had occupied most of her waking thoughts, as well as her dreams. One memory in particular stood out in her mind: the night at the Hotel Victoria in Calais. What a strange incident that had been.
His violence had sparked something in her she’d long sought to keep down, but setting it free had done so much for her, both emotionally and physically. He was one of the most fascinating men she’d ever known, completely cold, without compunction, and yet she had also glimpsed an underlying compassion during the few intimate moments they’d shared. It was still hard to believe he was gone, and although he had died before achieving his goal, he had achieved something else that he never had the chance to know about. Something much greater than what he’d aspired to.
Her hands, warm beneath her layers of clothing, drifted over the smooth skin of her stomach. She smiled to herself, thinking about the life that would soon spring from her body. At thirty-eight years of age, she had long since come to the conclusion that motherhood wasn’t meant for her, that she would have to find some other way to fill her barren inner landscape. And yet, now it seemed she had been given the chance she had always longed for.
She would not have to decide for many years, but she wondered what she would say to her child when he asked about his father. Would she tell him the truth? Or would she invent some acceptable version of events? Somehow, she didn’t think she could stretch her imagination that far. After all, there was nothing acceptable about the things she had done. While her actions had never concerned her before, she couldn’t help but wonder — in light of her recent discovery —whether it was time to put it all behind her.
It was something she’d have to consider, but for now, there was work to be done, revenge to be had. As she stared through the light dusting of snow on the windshield, a distant figure emerged from the predawn gloom, his feet pounding a steady rhythm on the pavement, his shoulders bouncing beneath ethereal light. He was obscured by a sudden gust of loose white powder, but then he reappeared, right on schedule, drawing ever closer.
Without shifting her gaze from the man jogging south on 17th Street, Nouri Hussein reached for her gun and pushed it under the folds of her coat. Then she opened the door and stepped onto the icy pavement.
The runner approached, unaware, and the snow came down in a great white cloud, obscuring the rising dawn.