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As the chief of base in Mosul, Stilwell could move far more easily around the city than both the chief of base in Basra and the chief of station in Baghdad. His counterpart in Basra lived on the base at the airport and was in constant fear of being kidnapped or assassinated. The chief of station in Baghdad rarely left the Americanized Green Zone, and when he did it was usually in a helicopter.
Stilwell liked to keep three safe houses in rotation at any given time. Every couple of months he’d rent a new one and close up one of the old ones. They were all fairly nondescript, two-story brick or stucco homes with high walls and a strong gate. He staffed them with private contractors and never stayed in one more than two nights in a row. He was constantly changing his routine so as to confuse anyone who might attempt to kidnap him. Dozens of contractors and private citizens in Mosul had been ambushed and held for ransom. About half of them made it back alive. The other half ended up floating downstream in the river. Massoud would from time to time provide a shadow for Stilwell to see if anyone was following him. Massoud’s men caught a local thug getting a little too close a few months earlier and put him in the hospital with a broken jaw and two broken legs.
As they crossed over the Tigris, Stilwell brought Rapp up to speed on Massoud.
“He’s been trying to get this house for three years.”
“Why this house in particular?” Rapp asked.
“It’s on the east side of the river. There’s more land and it tends to be less violent. It also puts him that much closer to the Iranian border which for some reason means a lot to him.”
As they crossed over the river, Stilwell pointed north. “You see that patch of land past that other bridge with all the trees. It looks like a park?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s his new place. It used to belong to one of Saddam’s cousins. The guy had a monopoly on the textile industry in northern Iraq. With Saddam’s help he used forced labor to run his factories. I guess the guy made a killing.”
“Did we get lucky and drop a bomb on his head?”
“Nope. He took off to Jordan the week before the war started. The guy has been holding out hope that he would be able to return. A few months ago he finally saw the light and sold to Massoud.”
They made it across the bridge and turned north. A mile later they turned on to a quiet road and then a few hundred yards after that they approached a massive steel gate with guards milling about. The men recognized Stilwell and greeted him with smiles and waves. A signal was given and a twelve-foot-high steel gate began rolling back.
“They’re not going to search us?” Rapp asked.
“Massoud and I are tight. They trust me.”
As they drove up the tree-lined drive, Rapp got his first glimpse of the house. It was massive. “I don’t remember him being this wealthy when I was here last year. Is this guy into anything other than used car parts?” Rapp asked with suspicion.
“He might be into a few other things.”
“Like what?”
“Guns.”
“He’s an arms dealer?”
“More of a financier. He helps put the deals together.”
“Anything else I should know about?”
“Saddam’s cousin…the one he bought this place from?”
“Yeah.”
“He also bought his business.”
“At a steeply discounted price, I’m sure.”
Stilwell stopped in front of the massive portico. “These Sunnis have been screwing people for years. You’re not going to get any sympathy out of me.”
Rapp opened his car door and stood, taking in the full scope of the front of the house and the motor court. Massoud Mahabad had done very well for himself.
“Mitch.”
Rapp turned to see Massoud coming toward him down a walking path covered with crushed rock that looked as if it led to an orchard of some sort. The man stood five feet eight inches tall and Rapp figured he weighed over 200 pounds. He had mostly gray hair and was probably in his late sixties. He was wearing a short-sleeve Tommy Bahama shirt. Rapp began walking toward the man.
“Thank you for traveling all this way to see me,” Massoud said in perfect English as he extended his hand.
