The Jericho Sanction

by Oliver North

  Kamil had chosen the spot not only for its remoteness, but to prove to Dotensk his ruthlessness. He had executed his own trusted chauffeur with Dotensk's pistol in an attempt to intimidate and blackmail the Ukrainian. The vicious performance had worked—Dotensk gave Hussein Kamil the same respect and trepidation he would give a poisonous viper.

  He remembered that the second time he had gone to that same remote area, Kamil had executed two more people, once again showing no hesitation or remorse. He had definitely proven to Dotensk he was the most ruthless person the Ukrainian had ever encountered. But of course, in the end, Kamil wasn't the worst—Saddam or either of his two oldest sons could claim that title now, unchallenged.

  As Dotensk turned another page in his logbook, he stopped reading and looked away into space. His eyes widened as if he had a sudden revelation. He turned back the pages to the account of the place he had visited twice with Kamil.

  Of course! What a perfect hiding place. Not even Kamil's own bodyguards went with us to that place!

  Dotensk jumped up and called for one of his assistants. A middle-aged man, more than six feet tall and barrel-chested, entered the room in answer to his call.

  “Kharkiv, get the car ready; I want to go within the hour. Do we have contact with our office and men in Baghdad on the weekend?”

  “Yes...of course. Why?”

  “I want you to call them and make arrangements for a truck and a small forklift. And I will need four men. But I want our men—no Iraqis or Palestinians for this job. Tell them to meet me at our offices at the Al Rashid Hotel at eight o'clock tonight—and have Vanya check the computer files for the manifest we used when we went to Chernobyl in March '95. Have her make me a new set of documents. List the cargo on the manifest as computer mainframes or something like that. If I can find what I am looking for, I will want to bring the shipment back here from Baghdad on a truck. So get me fifty thousand in U.S. dollars to take with me. I might have to buy some silence and smooth border crossings.”

  “Do you know where they are hidden?” Kharkiv asked with a wide, hopeful grin.

  Dotensk shrugged. “I am not sure. But I know a likely spot—and a site that the Iraqis have probably overlooked. There is also another site...so I am going to look at both places.”

  If he was quite lucky at the first site, Dotensk could take them away and sell them again. But if it turned out they were being stored at the so-called “mosque,” then he would only get credit for locating them. Still, it would buy him some goodwill and trust for another sale. And if that was where they were, Dotensk was quite sure that Mr. Qusay Hussein would pay handsomely for the information.

  “I will see to everything you need right away,” Kharkiv said. “But what shall I do about the two women you brought here?”

  “Nothing special. Just guard them...give them food and water...and wait until General Komulakov comes on Monday. If I have not returned by the time he comes on Monday, you can tell him where I went and what I am doing. Tell him I will get back here as quickly as I can.”

  Thirty minutes later, Dotensk had thrown some clothes into a garment bag and reviewed the phony shipping manifest his aides had prepared. He put the papers and cash into an attaché case and tossed it, along with the garment bag, into the back of the car that had just been washed and fueled for the ten-hour trip across the Syrian and Iraqi deserts to Baghdad. He drove out of the compound atop Jabal At Tanf; one of the guards opened the big, iron gate only to close it moments later behind the silver Mercedes. In another twenty minutes, Dotensk was already on the Damascus-to-Baghdad highway, speeding to his first destination some 350 miles away.

  Habirah Prison

  Near Salman Pak, Iraq

  Saturday, 21 March 1998

  1645 Hours, Local

  Bruno Macklin strolled across the courtyard of Habirah Prison, grateful for the hour or so of fresh air and sunlight he was able to enjoy once a day. Although he was a new inmate at this prison, he had been moved enough times over the last three years to know what he had to do. First, he exercised and walked whenever he could, using these occasions to make acquaintances. Even though communications with other prisoners were forbidden, he talked with them whenever he could, either at these outdoor exercises or when the guards took them for their weekly showers. That's how he knew he was not the only Westernerconfined in this prison; he had seen another Westerner once when the viewing portal had been inadvertently left open in his metal cell door and again this morning, as they were being taken in groups of ten to the shower room.

  Now, across the prison yard in another exercise cage, he saw the man for a third time. Macklin moved over against the fence separating the two exercise pens. The British SAS officer sat down in the dirt near the fence and took off his shoe, making a big show of removing a stone inside it. As he did so, he scanned the watchtowers and windows high above the yard. He could see no one paying any particular attention, so he hissed to get the attention of the lanky man with the thinning, light brown hair.

  The prisoner approached the fence and bent over as though he was picking something off the ground.

  “I'm Bruno Macklin, SAS. What's your name? How long have you been a POW?”

  “Robbie Blake, RAF. I was shot down four years ago, hit by a SAM patrolling the exclusion zone. How long have you been here?”

  “Just got here. Are there any more of us here?”

  “Yes, four of us and two Americans. Some of them have been Saddam's guests since the Gulf War.”

  “How have you been treated?”

  “Bloody awful,” Blake said, “just well enough to be kept alive, although I can't quite figure out why they bother. I'm sure everyone back home assumes I was killed in my plane crash. The Red Cross isn't permitted here, so I hadn't heard from anyone at home since I was shot down—until yesterday.”

  “Yesterday?”

  “Yeah. Yesterday I was handed a note from the chief of the guards. That's how I knew there was a fourth member of Her Majesty's Armed Forces in here. The guard chief slipped me a note on my way out of the showers, telling me I should be ready to be moved, along with three of my countrymen and two Americans, sometime in the next few days. We're supposed to be—how did he put it?—‘leaving the country together.’”

  “What's in it for the guard?” Macklin said.

  “The way I figure it, this guy wants us for a meal ticket when he defects. I get the idea he's selling us to our people.”

  Macklin's head was spinning; things were happening too fast. “How do you know he's for real?”

  “He had the right authentication code on the note. That means someone back home finally knows we're here and is making some kind of arrangements,” said the pilot.

  “When is all this supposed to happen?”

  “Tomorrow night.”

  “And you believe him?”

  “I don't know. I do know I'd prefer not to die here. For all I know, you could be SSS. But I'm willing to take that risk if there's a chance of getting out of here.”

  Macklin squinted at the setting sun and then looked at Blake. “What if it's a trick and they use the scam to kill us, trying to escape?”

  “Yeah, I thought of that too. But the authentication was correct, and besides—the Iraqis don't need to bother with elaborate hoaxes to rationalize killing us.”

  Macklin nodded. That was certainly true enough. He'd seen Iraqi officers execute prisoners without any apparent cause or excuse. “What about the Americans?” Macklin asked.

  “I've only been able to talk to one of them this morning when I was emptying out the trash,” Blake said. “The Yank I talked to said he'd go for it and said he'd let me know about the other fellow if he can.”

  “I see,” said Macklin. “Do we know how we're going to be transported?”

  “Apparently the man in charge here has faked a set of orders to have us transferred tomorrow night. He's going to escort us personally, as though we're being taken to another prison. He's scared to death beca
use he knows if his superiors find out about this, they'll shoot him. He apparently thinks he's going to get a lot of money for delivering us out of the country,” said the RAF officer. “The plan is for him to put us in a truck. He says the prison transfer documents he has will get us out the door with no problems. Then he and another guard will take us to Jordan or Saudi Arabia, where a helicopter transport will be waiting.”

  “And you think that this guy can pull it off?” asked Macklin, his hopes for freedom rising, despite himself, for the first time in years.

  “Yeah...he's the chief here. His men do as he tells them, and it's sort of routine to transfer prisoners like us every few months anyway.”

  “How far is it to the border?”

  “The guard chief says it's no more than two hundred kilometers. He says by the time anyone figures out what happened, we'll already be across.”

  Macklin thought for a moment, then said, “Well, count me in. Just tell me what I'm supposed to do.”

  “I'll get the word from the Iraqi guard and keep everyone posted,” Blake said. “And I'll tell you this...I'll sure be glad to get out of this cesspool of a country.”

  MI6 Assembly Point

  Rafha, Saudi Arabia

  Saturday, 21 March 1998

  1815 Hours, Local

  MI6 Agents Thomas and Blackman had taken an RAF flight from London to Incirlik, then hopped a commercial flight to Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. There, at the British embassy, they were provided with the keys to a Land Rover located in the car park between the British and the Netherlands embassies. One of the MI6 staff from Riyadh acted as their driver, and the three men began the long drive across the desert from Riyadh to Rafha. Ordinarily, it was a rule that any trips through the desert were to be made with at least two vehicles, in the event one of them broke down. But in this case, they had plenty of fuel, water, and rations with them, and the highway was reliable enough to take a chance. Two vehicles simply would have attracted more attention.

  It took them until just before six o'clock that evening to get to Rafha, the small Saudi city on Iraq's southern border that had once belonged to an Aram Co geologist. The two bone-weary MI6 officers were ushered into a nondescript stucco house on the outskirts of the city; there they met the rest of the team that would be handling the extraction operation.

  After introductions and a hurried meal of American MRE combat rations, the men spread maps on a large table and Thomas led the discussion. He had brought with him the background on the plan, sent via encrypted message to the MI6 station in Riyadh. MI6 HQ suggestedthese British and American prisoners were being held at Habirah Prison for a reason—to prevent the Israelis or Coalition powers from bombing the “mosque.” According to London's thinking, the Iraqis were probably hoping the prison and its hidden stores of chemical and bio weapons were safe from Allied bombers and cruise missiles as long as Western prisoners were housed there. So not only would this mission be a way to get the six allied prisoners back; it also would eliminate the human shield that prevented destruction of the site.

  “You already know most of the plan,” Thomas told them. “I assume you've made contact with someone inside the prison and were able to convince him to help.”

  “Yeah, for a price,” said Dwayne Wardell, the station chief in charge of the operation. “He had to have thirty thousand pounds and help in getting out of the country. He figured asking us for five thousand per man was reasonable.”

  “It probably is,” Thomas said, “but although that kind of money can buy his retirement in Iraq, once he gets to the West it may not be enough. Just be prepared to have some more money on hand...these guys have a way of upping the price at the last minute, when there's no time to dicker.”

  “Yeah, that's what I figured too. I have another thirty if we need it.”

  “So how much time do we have?” This time it was Blackman who spoke. He had hardly said a word since the discussion began, but it was clear he was engaged in the process.

  Wardell looked at his watch. “The break will begin just about twenty-four hours from now. The prisoners are returned to their cells from exercise at 1800 hours, give or take a few minutes. That's also the time the new guard shift comes on duty. Our man on the scene will usethis event to get the prisoners into a truck. We've been told it's an old military deuce-and-a-half used for hauling supplies back and forth from the prison. They tried to schedule the use of a fifteen-passenger van, but it fell through at the last minute.”

  “Is the truck reliable?” asked Thomas.

  Wardell nodded. “Probably as good as any. But just in case, we've asked for three satellite passes to track the truck after it leaves the prison. It'll be dark by then, but our liaison types at the NRO say they'll be able to watch it.”

  “What's the backup plan in case the truck does break down?” Blackman asked.

  “Well, that's where things get ticklish,” Wardell said. “We've got a company of Royal Marines from Four-Two Commando undergoing training with a contingent of the 24th Marine Expeditionary Unit about thirty kilometers south of here. They have a section of two AH-1 Cobra helicopters, two CH-53s and four CH-46s. It just happens they'll be doing some night operations not far from here about the time the break is scheduled to take place. The exercise has all been cleared in Riyadh, so it wouldn't be a bolt from the blue for the Saudis. If something goes wrong, the choppers'll fly in at low level, under radar, and go get them. The plan would be for a quick pick-up and get out of there before the Iraqis can tell their airspace was violated.”

  “Yeah...ticklish,” Thomas muttered. “I wouldn't count too much on the Iraqi radar not picking them up. That desert's pretty flat there, and anything higher than ten or fifteen feet might be seen. Let's just hope the truck doesn't break down.”

  Incirlik Air Base

  Adana, Turkey

  Saturday, 21 March 1998

  1825 Hours, Local

  “I'm sorry we seem to be sitting on our thumbs on this one,” General Grisham said, “but until we know where Komulakov is holding the women, there's not much we can do.”

  The CENTCOM commander was standing at a desk in the Command Suite at the sprawling Turkish Air Force Base that NATO and the U.S. Air Force had been using for decades, first to monitor the Soviet Union and now for keeping tabs on Saddam Hussein. Grisham turned to the map of the Middle East, mounted on the wall behind him, and spoke into the encrypted Iridium sat phone. “I want you to know we're doing all we can to track that phone call Komulakov made to you.”

  Newman's voice crackled in the earpiece. “I understand, General. I've told Komulakov I'm willing to do anything to get Rachel back, but it's hard for me to be sitting here trying to figure out a plan for giving him what he wants. Do you have any thoughts on just who this spy might be? Or where he works?”

  “Komulakov didn't give us much to go on. It's incredible to me that the Russians don't know who he is,” Grisham said. He consulted some notes he had made from Newman's earlier conversation. “I want to be sure about something Komulakov said to you before the Israeli raid. Did he tell you this mole they call Morales had handed over copies of classified documents from the CIA...some from the FBI...some from the NSA...and some even from the Pentagon?”

  “Yes, sir, that's what he said.”

  “Well, if that's the case, this guy has access to our country's greatest secrets. It may be Komulakov is doing us a favor.”

  “Sure...a regular good guy.”

  “Well, I wouldn't go as far as that,” General Grisham said, “but let's hope we can locate this mole before he does any more damage.”

  “Frankly, General, I don't know where to start. If this guy has that kind of access to secrets, he might be in the kind of place where he can also head off any attempts to catch him. I mean, whom can we trust in the intel community to get involved with us on this? The spy might be the very one we talk to about catching him.”

  “Yeah, I'm concerned about that too,” the general said. “That's why I'm inclined
to play this hand pretty close to the vest. Let me make some very quiet inquiries...and get Bill Goode's input. But let's try and keep a lid on this for now.”

  “I agree. Uh, General?”

  “Yes, Pete?”

  “I'm having some serious thoughts about just how far I can carry this thing with Komulakov.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, he wants this spy killed. That wouldn't be the way our side plays things. We'd want him alive to tell us how much damage he's done, what secrets he's given away, and why. And to be very honest, General, I'm bothered by the moral implications of taking on the role of judge, jury, and executioner, based on nothing more than Komulakov's word and for the sake of expediency, or...even my own personal reasons.

  “I mean, sir...suppose we do find out who this guy is. Do the ends justify the means? Am I supposed to play God? I mean, this isn'tcombat, where the rules seem clearer to me. Am I supposed to just off this guy? Major Rotem doesn't seem bothered by such distinctions. He says Israel even has a religious argument for it...that sometimes the greater good warrants actions like this. But the last time I checked, that's not the way it works in our country, sir.”

  Grisham thought for a few seconds before answering.

  “Well, you're right, Pete. Our system of law rejects personal revenge and places prosecutors, judges, and juries in that role, not individuals. And of course you're right about this not being combat, where a soldier has the moral right of self-defense. What Komulakov wants you to do is commit murder to serve his purposes, with the promise of achieving a noble goal of your own: the safe return of your wife. It is, I admit, a terrible choice. Most people, given similar circumstances, wouldn't hesitate to go after the spy and kill him.”

  “So what do I do, General? How do I get my wife back? There don't appear to be any good options here.”