Cheated of his chance to shine by producing the information supplied by the fliers, Rahmani realized he would have to contribute something. The question was—what? The only thing that would suffice was what the Rais wanted. And what would he want? Why, a conspiracy. Then a conspiracy he would have.
The key would be the transmitter.
He reached for his phone and called Major Mohsen Zayeed, the head of his unit’s sigint section, the people charged with intercepting radio transmissions. It was time they talked again.
* * *
Twenty miles west of Baghdad lies the small town of Abu Ghraib, a most unremarkable place and yet a name known if rarely mentioned throughout Iraq. For in Abu Ghraib stood the great prison, confined almost exclusively to use in the interrogation and confinement of political detainees. As such, it was staffed and run not by the national prison service but by the Secret Police, the AMAM.
At the time Hassan Rahmani was calling his sigint expert, a long black Mercedes approached the double wooden doors of the prison. Two guards, recognizing the occupant of the car, hurled themselves at the gates and dragged them open. Just in time; the man in the car could respond with icy brutality to those causing him a momentary delay through slackness on the job.
The car went through, the gates closed. The figure in the back acknowledged the efforts of the guards with neither nod nor gesture. They were irrelevant.
At the steps to the main office building, the car stopped, and another guard ran to open the rear passenger door. Brigadier Omar Khatib alighted, trim in a tailored barathea uniform, and stalked up the steps. Doors were hastily opened for him all the way. A junior officer, an aide, brought his attaché case.
To reach his office, Khatib took the elevator to the fifth and top floor, and when he was alone, he ordered Turkish coffee and began to study his papers. The reports of the day detailed progress in the extraction of needed information from those in the basement.
Behind his facade, Omar Khatib was as worried as his colleague across Baghdad—a man whom he loathed with the same venom as the feeling was returned.
Unlike Rahmani, who with his part-English education, grasp of languages, and cosmopolitan airs was bound to be inherently suspect, Khatib could count on the fundamental advantage of being from Tikrit.
So long as he did the job with which he had been tasked by the Rais, and did it well, keeping the confessions of treachery flowing to assuage the unappeasable paranoia, he was safe.
But the last twenty-four hours had been troubling. He too had received a telephone call the previous day, but from the son-in-law, Hussein Kamil. Like Ibrahim to Rahmani, Kamil had brought news of the Rais’s unbounded rage over the bombing of Al Qubai and was demanding results.
Unlike Rahmani, Khatib actually had the British fliers in his hands. That was an advantage on the one hand, a snare on the other. The Rais would want to know, and fast, just how the fliers had been briefed before the mission—just how much did the Allies know about Al Qubai, and how had they learned it?
It was up to him, Khatib, to produce that information. His men had been working on the fliers for fifteen hours, since seven the previous evening, when they had arrived at Abu Ghraib. So far, the fools had held out.
From the courtyard below his window came the sound of a hiss, a thwack, and a low whimper. Khatib’s brow furrowed in puzzlement, then cleared as he recalled.
In the inner yard below his window an Iraqi hung by his wrists from a crossbeam, his pointed toes just four inches above the dust. Nearby stood a ewer brimming with brine, once clear, now darkly pink.
Every guard and soldier crossing the yard was under standing orders to pause, take one of the two rattan canes from the jar, and administer a single stroke to the back of the hanging man, between the neck and the knees. A corporal under an awning nearby kept the tally.
The stupid fellow was a market trader who had been heard to refer to the President as the son of a whore and was now learning, albeit a trifle late, the true measure of respect that citizens should maintain at all times in reference to the Rais.
The intriguing thing was that he was still there. It just showed what stamina some of these working-class people had. The trader had sustained more than five hundred strokes already, an impressive record. He would be dead before the thousandth—no one had ever sustained a thousand—but it was interesting all the same. The other interesting thing was that the man had been denounced by his ten-year-old son.
Omar Khatib sipped his coffee, unscrewed his rolled-gold fountain pen, and bent over his papers.
Half an hour later, there was a discreet tap at his door.
“Enter,” he called, and looked up in expectation. He needed good news, and only one man could knock without being announced by the junior officer outside.
The man who entered was burly, and his own mother would have been hard put to call him handsome.
The face was deeply pitted by boyhood smallpox, and two circular scars gleamed where cysts had been removed. He closed the door and stood, waiting to be addressed.
Though he was only a sergeant, his stained coveralls carried not even that rank, yet he was one of the few men with whom the brigadier felt any fellow feeling. Alone among the staff of the prison, Sergeant Ali was permitted to sit in his presence, when invited.
Khatib gestured the man to a chair and offered him a cigarette. The sergeant lit up and puffed gratefully; his work was onerous and tiring, the cigarette a welcome break. The reason Khatib tolerated such familiarity from a man of such low rank was that he harbored a genuine admiration for Ali. Khatib held efficiency in high esteem, and his trusted sergeant was one who had never failed him. Calm, methodical, a good husband and father, Ali was a true professional.
“Well?” he asked.
“The navigator is close, very close, sir. The pilot ...” He shrugged. “An hour or more.”
“I remind you they must both be broken, Ali, nothing held back. And their stories must conform to each other. The Rais himself is counting on us.
“Perhaps you should come, sir. I think in ten minutes you will have your answer. The navigator first, and when the pilot learns this, he will follow.”
“Very well.”
Khatib rose, and the sergeant held the door open for him. Together they descended past the ground floor to the first basement level, where the elevator stopped. There was a passage leading to the stairs to the subbasement. Along the passage were steel doors, and behind them, squatting amid their filth, were seven American aircrew, four British, one Italian, and a Kuwaiti Sky hawk pilot.
At the next level down were more cells, two occupied. Khatib peered through the Judas-hole in the door of the first.
A single unshaded light bulb illuminated the cell, its walls encrusted with hardened excrement and other brown stains of old blood. In the center, on a plastic office chair, sat a man, quite naked, down whose chest ran slicks of vomit, blood, and saliva. His hands were cuffed behind him, and a cloth mask with no eye-slits covered his face.
Two AMAM men in coveralls similar to those of Sergeant Ali flanked the man in the chair, their hands caressing yard-long plastic tubes packed with bitumen, which adds weight without reducing flexibility.
They were standing back, taking a break. Before their interruption, they had apparently been concentrating on the shins and kneecaps, which were skinned raw and turning blue-yellow.
Khatib nodded and passed to the next door. Through the hole he could see that the second prisoner was not masked. One eye was completely closed, the pulped meat of the brow and cheek knit together by crusted blood. When he opened his mouth, there were gaps where two broken teeth had been, and a froth of blood emerged from the mashed lips.
“Tyne,” the navigator whispered, “Nicholas Tyne. Flight lieutenant. Five oh one oh nine six eight.” “The navigator,” whispered the sergeant. Khatib whispered back, “Which of our men is the English-speaker?”
Ali gestured—the one on the left. “Bring him out.”
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Ali entered the cell of the navigator and emerged with one of the interrogators. Khatib had a conference with the man in Arabic. The man nodded, reentered the cell, and masked the navigator. Only then would Khatib allow both cell doors to be opened.
The English-speaker bent toward Nicky Tyne’s head and spoke through the cloth. His English was heavily accented but passable.
“All right, Flight Lieutenant, that is it. For you, it is over. No more punishment.”
The young navigator heard the words. His body seemed to slump in relief.
“But your friend, he is not so lucky. He is dying now. So we can take him to the hospital—clean white sheets, doctors, everything he needs; or we can finish the job. Your choice. When you tell us, we stop and rush him to hospital.”
Khatib nodded down the corridor to Sergeant Ali, who entered the other cell. From the open door came the sounds of a plastic quirt lashing a bare chest. Then the pilot began to scream.
“All right, shells!” shouted Nicky Tyne under his cowl. “Stop it, you bastards! It was an ammunition dump, for poison gas shells. ...”
The beating ceased. Ali emerged, breathing heavily, from the pilot’s cell.
“You are a genius, Sayid Brigadier.”
Khatib shrugged modestly.
“Never underestimate the sentimentality of the British and the Americans,” he told his pupil. “Get the translators now. Get all the details, every last one. When you have the transcripts, bring them to my office.”
Back in his sanctum, Brigadier Khatib made a personal phone call to Hussein Kamil. An hour later, Kamil called him back. His father-in-law was delighted; a meeting would be summoned, probably that night. Omar Khatib should hold himself available for the summons.
That evening, Karim was teasing Edith again, gently and without malice, this time about her job.
“Don’t you ever get bored at the bank, darling?” “No, it’s an interesting job. Why do you ask?” “Oh, I don’t know. I just don’t understand how you can think it interesting. For me, it would be the most boring job in the world.”
“Well, it’s not, so there.” “All right. What’s so interesting about it?” “You know, handling accounts, placing investments, that sort of thing. It’s important work.”
“Nonsense. It’s about saying ‘Good morning, yes sir, no sir, of course sir’ to lots of people running in and out to cash a fifty-schilling check. Boring.”
He was lying on his back on her bed. She walked over and lay beside him, pulling one of his arms around her shoulders so that they could cuddle. She loved to cuddle.
“You are crazy sometimes, Karim. But I love you crazy. Winkler Bank isn’t an issuing bank—it’s a merchant bank.”
“What’s the difference?”
“We have no checking accounts, customers with checkbooks running in and out. It doesn’t work like that.”
“So you have no money, without customers.”
“Of course we have money, but in deposit accounts.”
“Never had one of those,” admitted Karim. “Just a small current account. I prefer cash anyway.”
“You can’t have cash when you are talking of millions, People would steal it. So you put it in a bank and invest it.”
“You mean old Gemütlich handles millions? Of other people’s money?”
“Yes, millions and millions.”
“Schillings or dollars?”
“Dollars, pounds, millions and millions.”
“Well, I wouldn’t trust him with my money.”
She sat up, genuinely shocked.
“Herr Gemütlich is completely honest. He would never dream of doing that.”
“Maybe not, but somebody else might. Look—say, I know a man who has an account at Winkler. His name is Schmitt. One day I go in and say: Good morning, Herr Gemütlich, my name is Schmitt, and I have an account here. He looks in his book, and he says: Yes, you do. So I say: I’d like to withdraw it all. Then when the real Schmitt turns up, there’s nothing left. That’s why cash is better for me.”
She laughed at his naïveté and pulled him down, nibbling his ear.
“It wouldn’t work. Herr Gemütlich would probably know your precious Schmitt. Anyway, he’d have to identify himself.”
“Passports can be forged. Those damned Palestinians do it all the time.”
“And he’d need a signature, of which he would have a specimen copy.”
“So, I’d practice forging Schmitt’s signature.”
“Karim, I think you might turn out to be a criminal one day. You’re bad.”
They both giggled at the idea.
“Anyway, if you were a foreigner and living abroad, you’d probably have a numbered account. They are completely impregnable.”
He looked down at her from one elbow, brow furrowed.
“What’s that?”
“A numbered account?”
“Mmmmmm.”
She explained how they worked.
“That’s madness,” he exploded when she had finished. “Anybody could turn up and claim ownership. If Gemütlich has never even seen the owner—”
“There are identity procedures, idiot. Very complex codes, methods of writing letters, certain ways the signatures have to be placed—all sorts of things to verify that the person is really the account owner.
Unless they are all complied with—to the letter—Herr Gemütlich will not cooperate. So impersonation is impossible.”
“He must have a hell of a memory.”
“Oh, you are too stupid for words. It is all written down. Are you taking me out to dinner?”
“Do you deserve it?”
“You know I do.”
“Oh, all right. But I want an hors d’oeuvre.”
She was puzzled. “All right, order one.”
“I mean you.”
He reached out and grabbed the waist of her skimpy panties, pulling her with a hooked finger back onto the bed. She was giggling with delight. He rolled over on top of her and began to kiss. Suddenly he stopped. She looked alarmed.
“I know what I’d do,” he breathed. “I’d hire a safecracker, break into old Gemütlich’s safe, and look at the codes. Then I could get away with it.”
She laughed in relief that he had not changed his mind about making love.
“Wouldn’t work. Mmmmmm. Do that again.”
“Would so.”
“Aaaaaah. Wouldn’t.”
“Would. Safes are broken all the time. See it in the papers every day.”
She ran her exploring hand below, and her eyes opened wide.
“Ooooh, is that all for me? You’re a lovely, big, strong man, Karim, and I love you. But old Gemütlich, as you call him, is a bit smarter than you. ...”
A minute later, she no longer cared how smart Gemütlich was.
While the Mossad agent made love in Vienna, Mike Martin was setting up his satellite dish as midnight approached and the eleventh of the month gave way to the twelfth.
Iraq was then just eight days away from the scheduled invasion of February 20. South of the border, the northern slice of the desert of Saudi Arabia bristled with the biggest single concentration of men and arms, guns, tanks, and stores crammed into such a relatively small piece of land since the Second World War.
The relentless pounding from the air went on, though most of the targets on General Horner’s original list had been visited, sometimes twice or more. Despite the insertion of fresh targets caused by the short-lived Scud barrage on Israel, the air master plan was back on track. Every known factory for the production of weapons of mass destruction had been pulverized, and that included twelve new ones added by information from Jericho.
As a functioning weapon, the Iraqi Air Force had virtually ceased to exist. Rarely had her interceptor fighters, if they chose to tangle with the Eagles, Hornets, Tomcats, Falcons, Phantoms, and Jaguars of the Allies, returned to their bases, and by mid-February they were not even bothering to try. Some of the cream of the fight
er and fighter-bomber force had deliberately been sent to Iran, where they had at once been impounded. Others still had been destroyed inside their hardened shelters or ripped apart if caught out in the open.
At the highest level, the Allied commanders could not understand why Saddam had chosen to send the cream of his warplanes to his old enemy. The reason was that after a certain date he firmly expected every nation in the region to have no choice but to bow the knee to him; at that point he would recover his war fleet.
There was by then hardly a bridge left intact in the entire country or a functioning power-generating station.
By mid-February, an increasing Allied air effort was being directed at the Iraqi Army in south Kuwait and over the Kuwaiti border into Iraq itself.
From the east-west Saudi northern border up to the Baghdad-Basra highway, the Buffs were pounding the artillery, tank, rocket-battery, and infantry positions. American A-10 Thunderbolts, nicknamed for their grace in the sky “the flying warthog,” were roaming at will doing what they did best—destroying tanks. Eagles and Tornados were also allocated the task of “tank-plinking.”
What the Allied generals in Riyadh did not know was that forty major facilities dedicated to weapons of mass destruction still remained hidden beneath the deserts and the mountains, or that the Sixco air bases were still intact.
Since the burial of the Al Qubai factory, the mood was lighter both among the four generals who knew what it had really contained, as it was among the men of the CIA and the SIS stationed in Riyadh.
It was a mood mirrored in the brief message Mike Martin received that night. His controllers in Riyadh began by informing him of the success of the Tornado mission despite the loss of one airplane. The transmission went on to congratulate him for staying in Baghdad after being allowed to leave, and on the entire mission. Finally, he was told there was little more to do. Jericho should be sent one final message, to the effect the Allies were grateful, that all his money had been paid, and that contact would be reestablished after the war. Then, Martin was told, he really should escape to safety in Saudi Arabia before it became impossible.