After the Fall

by Patricia Gussin

  His escort hiked up the wrinkled brown pants that were slipping down his hips, and said nothing. Dru started to veer toward the lone immigration booth. “No,” the man said. “Come.” No immigration process. This was a first.

  “Where are we going?” he asked in Arabic.

  No response.

  “To my hotel, I hope,” Dru hoped this guy got the point. “Long trip. I need sleep.”

  Nothing. Dru noticed the sole on one of the man’s shoes flapped when he walked. With no choice but to follow, Dru glanced around at his surroundings. He was one of few civilians. Soldiers with machine guns and menacing facial expressions filled the terminal. Dru had flown in and out of this airport before, and other than the military presence, he didn’t think it looked much different than it had before last year’s Persian Gulf War, the one triggered by Saddam’s invasion of Kuwait. The whole thing—Operation Desert Storm—had lasted less than two months, but the residual public relations disaster was incalculable, to say nothing of the financial impact. Just four years before that, Saddam had come off an eight-year war with Iran. A brutal conflict with dire losses. The name “Saddam” means “he who confronts,” and whoever named the baby who someday would be president of Iraq must have consulted a seer.

  But what did Saddam want with him? Why had he summoned him to Baghdad in these worst of political times? The regime had always kept him secluded, a one-man cell in the heart of the Muslim community in Dearborn. A naturalized US citizen successfully assimilated into Western culture and structure, a respected banker at Chase Manhattan. The last time he’d been called to Iraq had been ten years ago, and that had been to wed Shada, the woman selected for him by his handlers. Thoughts of Shada made Dru smile. He hadn’t chosen her, but there was not a woman on the face of the earth he’d rather have for his life partner.

  Exiting the terminal, Dru’s escort led him to a nondescript, gray sedan parked immediately within the security zone of the terminal. They had top clearance, so apparently this was not to be a social visit, an opportunity to see his mother, reconnect with his brother. The escort opened the back door for Dru, closed it, and took the front passenger seat. Without a word, the driver pulled into sparse traffic and proceeded past the multitudinous security checks with the mere flash of a plastic card. Dru had bypassed customs, all security checkpoints. Not what he’d expected in post-Gulf War Iraq. His American passport had gotten him to London, but there he’d been given a Jordanian passport to use on the flight to Amman and then to Baghdad. As far as US Immigration knew, he was in England. The US had closed its embassy in Baghdad in 1991, and were not likely to reopen it any time soon. Dru was on his own in his native and now volatile and violent country.

  The airport was located in Abu Ghraib, a suburb about twenty miles west of central Baghdad. The route, however, did not lead into town where Dru had anticipated a hotel at least, or perhaps even a stay with his aging mother. Dru had dozed for a few minutes, his body slumped against the door nearest him. He jerked awake when the car came to a stop within sight of a palatial building. Must be dreaming, he thought, blinking. Then the realization hit. Radwaniyah Palace, the Presidential Complex. A place he’d never been to, never wanted to go to—the nest of Saddam’s family of vipers.

  His silent escort opened his door before he’d righted himself from his brief sleep, and Dru all but fell out of the vehicle. He caught himself and, despite his fatigue and the forced march between two mute men, he couldn’t help but ogle the gleaming structure, the elaborate landscaping, the glitter of gold as the massive front door opened to reveal even more splendor.

  “They’re waiting for you,” his escort said, breaking his silence. “Come.”

  Dru jolted to full alert despite sleep deprivation. He complied without comment, blinking as they passed by floor-to-ceiling windows revealing an immense pool with fountains spewing crystal clear water, the whole area surrounded by luscious palm trees and beds of massed flowers layered in vibrant colors and intricate designs. He had a good fix on Iraq’s finances and a pretty good idea of Saddam’s family wealth, but he could not have imagined such opulence. Again, like thunder, the question struck: What do they want with me?

  Dru had heard about Al-Faw Palace within the Radwaniyah complex and its companion on the property to the south: Victory Over Iran Palace, still under construction. Both edifices bordered a huge manmade lake. A lake stocked with Saddam’s famous bass. Dru caught glimpses of the water as they continued down the marble-lined Radwaniyah corridor. He could imagine the extended Hussein family’s Jet Skis buzzing over the azure-blue glassy surface.

  When his companions stopped suddenly in front of gilded double doors, Dru forced himself back to reality. He was in Saddam Hussein’s palace—one of his hundred or so palaces; one of the eight palaces declared off-limits to the UN inspection teams. And when the door to the small, elite conference room opened, he faced two of the most dangerous men in the world: Qusay Hussein and Hussein Kamel. The former, Saddam’s son, and responsible for Iraq’s indescribably brutal “security.” The latter, Saddam’s son-in-law, responsible, Dru knew, for Iraq’s notorious weapons of mass destruction. Nuclear, chemical, biological, you name it. Saddam’s powerful public relations machine had not deluded him.

  Dru mentally writhed in the reality of coming into face-to-face contact with these vicious Iraqis. Lack of sleep must have dazed him, as he hadn’t noticed the frail, elderly man who sat between them. The old man spoke first, his voice shaky and fragile, “Badur, I believe you know my daughter?”

  Asleep or awake? Which?

  “Go!” Qusay dismissed the two men who had picked up Dru at the airport and made sure his journey from Detroit ended here, in this small conference room. Dru reminded himself he had spoken to no one, seen no one but these two since touchdown. “Sit!” Qusay ordered.

  Dru took the only empty chair at the small square table, across from the older man. Should he ask him what he meant? You know my daughter.

  Hussein Kamel preempted him in loud Arabic. “Hammadi. We don’t have time to waste.”

  “This is Jamail Abdul,” Qusay spoke next. “Adawia Abdul’s father. You are the woman’s handler. We want her back in Baghdad. Immediately. That is your assignment. We brought you here at great expense and risk to deliver your orders. Directly. No middleman nonsense. You deliver the woman.” For emphasis, Qusay pounded the table with his fist.

  “She’ll come if you explain I am very ill,” the old man spoke, out of turn. “Tell her I need her. Since colleagues have disappeared, my program is at risk. The infidel inspections here are driving us underground.”

  “Okay, Jamail, enough,” Qusay said. “Are we very clear here, Hammadi? You get Jamail’s daughter back to Iraq now. Same way you came. Through Jordan. False passport. Use your resources. Get her here. Now.”

  “Dr. Abdul is…” Dru struggled to find his voice, to speak in Arabic. “Dr. Abdul is about to come into a very large sum of money. But she must be employed by her company in order to collect it. Millions—”

  Kamel stood, his face inflamed. “Do we look like we need her fucking money? I need my bio program. Now. Get the fucking whore over here!”

  Dru watched Jamail’s face pinch at the insult to his daughter, but the old man didn’t protest.

  “Hammadi—these palaces here, my father has dozens,” Qusay said with a smirk. “There’ll be a new one soon: Victory Over America. I have money everywhere in the world and can buy whatever I need. And now my brother Kamel needs a replacement for Jamail. Get her. Immediately.”

  Both tyrants got up to leave. Qusay stormed out without a word, leaving Kamel to say, “You have one hour with Jamail Abdul. He will instruct you as to what to tell his daughter. You will return immediately to the States to accomplish your mission.”

  “My mother?” Dru asked. “My brother?” Ten years since their last reunion. His mother was well into her sixties. He had family matters to discuss with his brother. He’d promised Shada that he’d see her sis
ter, give her the letters Shada could not risk mailing.

  “Not today,” Kamel snarled. “One hour for Jamail, then plane back. Your mother’s and brother’s fates depend on you. Same as your wife’s and sons’ in America.”

  Dru watched the clock ticking on the wall as he sat back down to deal with Addie’s father. He didn’t trust himself; he was exhausted to the point of total body pain. Don’t let your mind wander. Stay focused. Your life and everybody’s you care about are on the line. No screwups.

  “Son, I have much to tell you in one short hour,” the old man began, as he edged his chair as close to the table as he could, and gestured for Dru to do the same.

  “I don’t understand,” Dru began, running fingers through his black, disheveled hair.

  “Just listen to me.” Dru was sure the casual gesture of Addie’s father’s hand moving to his mouth had a meaning. The walls have ears. He glanced upwards; discreetly disguised cameras too.

  Dru positioned his chair at the edge of the table, bringing him so close to the old man that he could smell acetone on his breath. Didn’t that smell mean severe illness?

  “I know about my daughter Adawia. I know she’s smart, she’s made a name for herself among the infidels. I know about her Western ways. I know how she’s desecrated the family name by her whoring. But none of that matters. I am dying. I need her here to take over my research.”

  Poor Addie. She and Dru—by proximity—were in deep shit. Dru had known Addie’s father was an important research doctor in Baghdad, that his political alliance was with Saddam. He had not realized he was a player in Iraq’s bioweapons program, that he worked closely with Hussein Kamel, second cousin of Saddam and his son-in-law as well. Since Dru had been exiled to America twenty-one years ago, all his connections to the homeland had been tightly managed by the Iraqi Intelligence Service, doled out strictly on a need-to-know basis. He wondered if Addie knew the depth of her father’s involvement in his country’s infamous biological warfare. Did she have any inkling?

  “What do you want me to do?” Dru asked, sucking in his breath.

  “The UN has been everywhere, looking for where we make the biologicals. Anthrax, Ebola, Clostridium, Brucella, others. Looking for the missiles, the warheads, the gyros. They won’t find them. Buried too deep.” The man started to cough, pulled out a ragged cloth, spit into it. Dru held his breath until the hacking ceased. “So many of my good scientists are dead. Some to infection, most to the regime.”

  Had he heard correctly? “The regime?” he questioned.

  “You need to know this, son, so you can convince my daughter. The man you just met, Hussein Kamel, is the head of the biological and chemical programs, but Uday—Saddam’s oldest son—is the mastermind. That man is paranoid. Eliminates anyone who wavers in any way.” Addie’s infirm father stared fiercely into Dru’s eyes, held the gaze for too long. Dru understood the message. One woman or one more family would be trivial to Saddam Hussein’s sons.

  “So, Dr. Abdul, you want Addie, I mean Adawia, to take your place?”

  “They want her. Uday and Kamel. She’s a woman, I tell them.” He started to wheeze. “Not suitable. But they insist. You have to get her here. I need to pass my knowledge on to her. There is no one else they trust.”

  “Did you know about the drug she developed? That she’s about to come into a good deal of money? Millions?” Dru knew it to be $7.5 million, but wasn’t sure he should disclose the amount.

  “Do you think money matters to them?” The old man gestured at the opulence of even this incidental room. “This palace and many just as lavish. That money means nothing.”

  To Addie, the money meant eventual freedom. Dru had planned to advise her on how to get it out of the United States. How to secrete it from the Iraqi government. And in the mix, he’d take plenty for himself. Money he needed to get his family to a safe place, beyond the reach of the bloodthirsty Iraqi regime.

  The old man looked up at the clock. “We have only fifteen minutes. Let me give you information to tell to my daughter.”

  Dru nodded, leaning back just a fraction in his chair. Stay alert. Listen. Many lives are at stake. He blinked at that reality. His life, his family’s, Addie’s family. But what about all the lives that would be taken? Hadn’t Saddam and his ruthless sons gassed more than 5,000 Kurds and unleashed any number of other chemical and biological weapons?

  “Tell Adawia we need her expertise to proceed with our program.”

  “Dr. Abdul, I don’t understand. Your daughter’s research is in immunology, transplant rejection.”

  “My daughter has a PhD in biochemistry from the University of Michigan. As a doctoral student there, she worked on an analog of the drug for antirejection of organs. That analog has properties to protect against infection caused by certain biological organisms. We want that protection in our hands before the infidels discover the potential.”

  A knock on the door interrupted. The same two men, driver and escort, appeared.

  “Time,” the escort said, his Arabic guttural.

  “Son,” the old man struggled to stand. “Get my daughter here immediately.” His breath was ragged. He had to clutch the edge of the table to steady himself. “I have much to teach her. I am ill, but her mother and sister and my grandson are—”

  Someone grasped Dru’s arms from behind, propelling him past the old man, through the office door, and, in an extreme hurry, out of the Radwaniyah Complex.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 29

  “Tim, when you asked me to marry you, I had no idea you were a gourmet cook.”

  Laura had always struggled to keep her weight under 130—close to normal for a five-foot-five woman—but with Tim’s culinary skills, she’d be fighting an uphill battle.

  “Artist,” Tim corrected, looking up from the cutting board where he had prepared various herbs. “Never follow a recipe. I’m a food impressionist. Just call me Monet of the kitchen.”

  “Can I do anything? I feel incompetent just sitting here watching.” Not that she could do much with a useless hand. But even with two surgically adept hands, she’d been a disaster in the kitchen.

  “You’re making me a little nervous. Why don’t you run along and study those charts and graphs bulging out of your briefcase.”

  “Between the drug development critical path spreadsheets and the drug safety pie charts and the endless organization charts, I don’t know where to start. But Tim, I can’t get into any of that, not tonight.”

  This was the night they’d decided to tell Patrick about his father. His biological father. They both agreed he needed to know. They’d tell him together. He’d be at the door any minute, and Laura had all she could do to keep it together. Why had she waited until her son was twenty-two? How many times had she rehearsed what she’d say? How could she make him understand? Patrick was the most grounded of all her children, well balanced. But could he forgive her for what she’d done? Would he forgive her for hiding the truth for so many years?

  The bell rang to Tim’s apartment, their apartment.

  “Laura,” Tim said, putting down the shallow dish of lamb chops marinating in his special concoction, “Patrick will be okay. He just needs to know the truth.”

  She felt fine tremors across all the muscles in her body as she rose from the high stool at the kitchen counter and headed to Tim, kissed him on the cheek, then went to open the door for Patrick.

  “Mom,” he said, rushing in, holding out both arms for a hug. “Oops, how’s the arm?” he asked, pulling back.

  Wiping his hands on a dish towel, Tim joined Laura at the front door, and Patrick turned to give him a man hug. Taking off his trench coat, Patrick looked around. “Anybody else here yet?”

  Laura held out her good arm for his coat, but he said, “Still finding my way around here. Where’s the coat closet?”

  Laura felt her pulse race. Patrick looked so much like David Monroe. The same lanky frame, hazel eyes with brown specks, light
brown hair. Some gray had shown up by then at the temples. When Patrick was born, David had been forty-one; had he survived, he’d be sixty-three now.

  “Who all’s coming? Can the girls get out of that residency prison they’re in?”

  “Nobody, honey,” Laura said. “Tonight, it’s just you.”

  “Only child—there were times when I was growing up that I wished for that. The youngest, always getting kicked around. But when they all left for college and I had two years of just you and me, Mom, I missed the sibs. No offense, but, well, you know how busy you were.”

  Laura turned to Patrick with such a stricken look that he corrected himself, “Not that you weren’t there for me. Quite the opposite. Busy as you were, you made more of my games than any other parent on my baseball team. It’s just that you weren’t so good when it came to pickup football or basketball. After Mike and Kevin left, I was on my own.”

  “I missed each one of you when you went off to college, but none more than you, Patrick, my baby.”

  “Sure, that’s what you tell us all. ‘You’re my favorite kid.’”

  Laura led Patrick into the kitchen and they each took a stool at the counter. “What’s for dinner?” Patrick asked. “Tim, are you cooking?”

  “You kids have a lot to learn about your future stepfather,” Tim said with a grin. “I’m multitalented, as you will soon find out.”

  Laura loved the relationship Patrick and Tim had developed over the years. Patrick had been nine when Tim arranged and participated in his heart surgery, old enough to remember Tim’s professional and personal support.

  “Lamb chops and my special au gratin potatoes, broccoli, and a chopped salad are on the menu,” Tim said. “Does it meet with our guest’s approval?”

  When should she tell him? Before dinner? During? After? Tim said he’d follow her lead, support in any way he could. Can I do this?