I took up the question of getting out of Kuwait with Salah, and he saw my point. “Mr. Jake, we appreciate what you have done for us, but this is our fight, not yours. If you think it best to return to your own people I can understand that, and I’ll see what can be arranged. There is a problem, though. Foreigners aren’t being allowed to leave, and in any case you’re a marked man. I gather the Iraqis actively seek you. To leave Kuwait you would have to make your way across the desert to the American lines in Saudi Arabia. In peaceful times that is not a difficult journey, but with the Iraqis patrolling the border and the road south it has become dangerous and perhaps arduous, as you will have to cross barren, unmarked desert. Without proper equipment and guidance you would be doomed. Give me a little time to consider this. I’ll let you know.”
The next day he came to me and said, “Mr. Jake, Mamoon Al Bahar has received word that his family in exile desperately needs his help. He has a large Jeep vehicle suitable for a cross-country desert traverse and he is a skilled driver. He thinks the two of you could set out in the early morning the day after Holy Day, Saturday, four days from now. To evade Iraqi border patrols you would take a western route across the desert beyond Al Wafrah until you cross the border, then drive southeast to intercept Highway 662. It isn’t a very long distance but it would be slow going. Once on the road you should easily reach Khafji on the Arabian coast before nightfall. It is a hazardous trip, but many parties have made it successfully.”
“I’m game,” I said. “Let me know what I can do to help between now and then.”
Mostly the next few days consisted of routine gear maintenance, guard duty and prep for the trek. On paper it didn’t look too bad, maybe 200 miles maximum. If all went well and we could average 20 miles per hour, we’d meet Salah’s estimate with ease. The night before setting out we loaded the Jeep with gas and water. My own gear didn’t take much space. Mamoon was carting out family stuff.
We left Salah’s villa at seven a.m. on the nose, at the lift of curfew. Why risk a stop by Iraqi patrols? We headed south on Highway 306 past Sabah Al Ahmad Air Base (now used by Iraqi planes), talking our way through one check point with a good story and a little baksheesh and skirting another using back lanes. Where 306 petered out we set off cross-country. The terrain was flat and fairly firm and the Jeep handled it well. We passed a number of abandoned cars including some Mercs and a Cadillac, plus vans and light trucks here and there, and a lot of scattered belongings. Everything had been well picked over, leaving only junk and scraps cluttering the sandy waste. “Not everybody makes it,” Mamoon said. “Get stuck in the sand out here by yourself and you’ve had it. These fancy air-conditioned cars become your coffin. I heard about one American who tried to escape to Saudi Arabia in his BMW 6-series before they shut off the border. Along the way he veered off the road and dug his wheels into the sand, and the people he convoyed with kept right on going, abandoning him. Some Bedouins stopped to help and only dug him in deeper. He managed to hitch a ride back to Kuwait City. The Bedouins returned later, unstuck the car and made off with it. Sixty thousand bucks worth of car!”
By the time we cleared the Saudi border the sun was high enough to bring the air up above 100F. We traveled ten miles further south, then turned easterly to catch highway 662. I spotted a black dot on the horizon and pointed it out to Mamoon. “Oh shit,” he said. “Something’s coming, and it’s not going to be good news. We’re too far from the American lines yet.” The dot danced and wiggled in the heat waves rising from the ground. Fascinated, I watched it grow and shrink and shimmer, floating above the flat, barren desert. Then it started forming into a shape, though I couldn’t make out what. Suddenly a hail of tracer bullets dug up the sand fifty yards ahead of us. Mamoon slowed down. The black, shifting blob rose in the air above ground interference and became an attack helicopter, closing in on us.
There was no use trying to evade it so Mamoon stopped the car. The chopper, a Russian model, circled around stirring up gritty clouds of dust. We had submachine guns in the car, but the chopper set down with us in his sights, the rotor turning at hover speed. If we fired on them as they got out, those machine guns would turn us to grease. If we took off in the car, they’d just rise, follow us and turn us to grease. Any evasive action we might try, we’d wind up as grease.
Two Iraqi Republican Guards climbed down and, AK-47s leveled at us, advanced. Ten yards away they stopped and motioned us out of the car. We came out slowly, hands in the air. One of them walked forward to us. “Your papers, please,” he said.
“Sir, we are now in Saudi Arabia,” said Mamoon. “We do not have to obey your orders.”
“Considering that we have you at our mercy I think you would be wise to comply. Your papers, please.”
Nothing for it but to hand over our papers. They examined them, and one turned to me. “You are Mr. Jake Fonko, then? This photo does not show the beard, but the other man is definitely not Mr. Fonko.”
“Yes, I’m Fonko,” I said.
‘”You will come with us, please.” The other Guard stepped forward and patted me down for weapons. Finding me clean, the one in charge said, “You have some belongings in the car? Get them.” I went over and dug my gear out of the Jeep, and they motioned me toward the chopper. “Mr. Al Bahar, you are free to go. We apologize for the inconvenience. If you continue in your present direction you will reach the American lines in two hours.” The Iraqi returned his papers.
They loaded me into the rear compartment of the chopper, where a couple Iraqi army officers sat waiting. The pilot hit the throttle and we lifted off. I looked down. Mamoon had gotten into the Jeep and started in the direction we’d been going. The pilot rotated the chopper around, drew a bead and, laughing, hosed down Mamoon with his cannon. Then he raised us aloft and took a northwesterly course at a fast clip, leaving behind a heap of wreckage sending flames and black smoke into the clear desert air—my friend Mamoon’s coffin .
“What’s going on here?” I asked. “You were looking for me specifically. How did you locate me out here in the desert?”
“From the tracking device in your vehicle,” one of the officers said. “We’ve been seeking you since we found your file in the Kuwaiti Intelligence Department, but you evaded us at the Hilton Hotel. Our agent reported that you joined Salah Al Sabah’s group, and we’ve had you under surveillance ever since. Our orders were to take you alive and in good condition, and this was our first opportunity to do so with certainty. We didn’t, after all, want to risk your life by storming the villa, or by attacking your patrols on their fool’s errands. We bided our time until an opportunity presented itself. So here you are. And now we can safely move in and wipe out the Salah group.”
The cartoon lightbulb flashed above my head. That fucking Palestinian! No wonder Iraqis were so scarce when he knew we were going on patrol.
“What now?” I asked.
“Next stop is Baghdad. Make yourself comfortable.”
*
We flew fast over a lot of empty desert. The pilot put down at an Iraqi air base for a fuel top-up. While the ground crew took care of it my captors gave me coffee and sweet rolls and let me hit the john. We continued over more desert, then farm fields and orchards, villages, small towns and a big river. I asked questions of the officers overseeing me, but they wouldn’t tell me anything.
Presently we reached the outskirts of a large city. Our low altitude flight didn’t afford a panoramic view of it, but I could estimate from what I saw on the horizon that it was major—must be Baghdad. We soon touched down at a sprawling airfield, an Iraqi Air Force base by all appearances. As the rotors wound down an armed guard came out to receive me. We de-coptered and they escorted me directly to their equivalent of a brig. “You will stay here for the time being, until arrangements are made,” one of the officers informed me. The guard led me to a barred cell. As jails go, it wasn’t the worst I’d been in. I had the cell to myself. The
pad on the bunk didn’t show blood or any other kinds of stains. The toilet bucket had been hosed clean. You accepted cockroaches as part of the service. If there were rats, they had the decency to keep out of sight. At dusk a military guard brought me a bowl of stew—Lamb? Goat?—some bread and some coffee. Tastier than most prison chow I’d eaten. Luxe accommodations.
And then night fell. I recalled Salah’s warning about falling into their hands. How soon would the electroshocking, eye-gouging and de-manhooding get under way? Nothing for me to do there but wait and wonder.
Tuesday, October 2, 1990
As jails go the present hospitality wasn’t bad. They treated me respectfully and served me decent food. After searching my luggage and stealing the baubles I’d bought for Dana at the gold souk they brought the suitcases to my cell, allowing me changes of underwear and sox.
It was boring, of course—jail always is. I remembered a character in the book, Catch 22, Lieutenant Dunbar. His theory of life extension held that you should seek boredom because it made the passage of time seem slower. He’d have cherished a sentence in my Iraqi brig. But at least I wasn’t under duress or immediate threat. The hospitable treatment puzzled me after the stories I’d heard about Iraqis prisoner policies, but count my blessings.
The third morning after I arrived the jailers brought a bucket of water, a towel and a little bar of soap, and told me to get cleaned up. I’d gotten pretty rank in that steaming, open-air cell, and did so gladly. The guard indicated I should wear one of my business suits, which I took to mean I’d be meeting important parties in a safe setting. Who ever heard of putting a $1700 suit on someone whose tongue you intended to cut out? Just imagine the cleaning bill!
A short while later armed guards unlocked my cell door, gathered up my gear and marched me out to a personnel carrier. We all climbed in and took off. After a forty minute drive along a litter-strewn road through scrubby desert, marginal farm fields, squalid villages, military posts and poor peasants on every hand, we entered a decent-looking suburban area and then arrived at a lavish palace set back in landscaped grounds. A stately man in a white robe and headdress came out to meet my guards and me as we emerged from the car into the hot sun.
“Mr. Jake Fonko?” he said. I nodded yes. “Please come with me.” To my guards he said, “Wait here. Food and drink will be brought to you.” To me he said, “Saddam regrets the delay, but he had many matters to attend to before he could make time for a proper meeting. I hope you haven’t eaten yet, as his Excellency likes to see guests enjoy his hospitality.” He led me into an elegant salon. A sprawling Persian carpet (expensive) lay over a deeply polished, parquetted wood floor. Florid tapestries decorated the walls. Couches, easy chairs, coffee tables and intricately carved sideboards sat around the periphery, and a glittering chandelier topped it all off. He guided me to a door over on the side, pulled it open and ushered me into a spacious, high-ceilinged office room with desk, bookcases, worktables and electronics in one area and meeting space in another.
Saddam Hussein, clad today in a be-medaled military uniform, sat on an expansive leather couch before a low table laden with platters and trays of food. A servant poured me out a cup of coffee and indicated I take a seat on a cushioned armchair opposite Saddam.
“Greetings, Mr. Fonko,” said Saddam. He started off surprisingly soft-spoken that morning. History’s dictators have tended toward the pipsqueak side—Napoleon, Stalin, Arafat and Tito, were under 5’ 6”—but Saddam looked over six feet tall and bulky. “I am sorry I couldn’t see you sooner but urgent matters interfered, as you might imagine with all that is going on these days. I thought it best to detain you behind bars in the interim for your own protection. I hope you weren’t mistreated?”
“As far as being in a jail cell for three days goes, I can’t complain,” I replied. He seemed to be in a “fellow soldier” mood. As long as we kept it on that level maybe this wouldn’t be as bad as I’d feared.
“When my intelligence people first informed me you were in Kuwait I worried about what trouble you might cause us. We put you under surveillance as soon as I heard, but it was only when you tried to cross the desert that we could safely take you into custody.”
How the hell does a foreigner address a Third World dictator? Your Excellency? Your Highness? Your Eminence? Screw it: I wasn’t feeling very honorific just then. “I don’t understand this at all, “ I said. “What interest do you have in me? I came to Kuwait on a consulting assignment, then got caught up in the events of your invasion. I was all set to leave Kuwait on August 2 and would happily have done so had your troops not shut the airport down.”
“Yes, I accept that your covert status would dictate evasions and denials, and I don’t blame you for that. Iraq employs spies too, so I know the routines. But you were working for Fawaz Al Sabah of Kuwaiti Intelligence. What more proof do I need? I’ve been aware of Jake Fonko for some time now. You first came to my attention during my war with Iran. My army had won a particularly difficult battle by stampeding a troop of boys over a minefield in front of the Iranian gun emplacements, and following it up with a massed bayonet charge. Afterwards, one of my spies reported that the Ayatollah, upon hearing the news, screamed, ‘That devil Fonko must be behind this!’ Of course we won the battle by dint of my superior military leadership, but the Ayatollah’s remark intrigued me, and I set some intelligence specialists to look into it. They probed and asked around and came up with amazing stories of your secret exploits and espionage.”
“Whatever you’ve heard about me in intelligence circles is greatly exaggerated. I’ve done nothing to merit a personal interview like this.”
“You are too modest, Mr. Fonko. I’m satisfied that the reports I’ve seen are accurate. The action on Grenada. Toppling Ferdinand Marcos. Rescuing the Shah. The question is, now that I have you here, what is to be done with you? I think we will have to find out what your role in this war is and what you know of American strategy behind their buildup across the border. Working for the Al Sabah interests, obviously you were brought to Kuwait to prevent the rebel government we support from gaining control of the country. I think also you will be a good bargaining chip. What is your Central Intelligence Agency willing to give me, to get their superspy back, I wonder? I foresee interesting negotiations ahead.”
“They won’t give you much, considering that I don’t work for them.”
“Of course not, of course not,” he said with a knowing smile. “Some of our allies are interested in you too, and we may reap some benefits from that. Say, are you hungry? I told the prison to treat you well but even their best is far from acceptable. Please take a plate and see if you can find something fit to eat on the buffet.”
I was hungry, he had that right at least. The feast laid out before us was sumptuous, top of the line Middle Eastern eats—couscous, savory stews, warm bread, skewered kabobs with spicy marinades, preserved and fresh fruits, sweet cakes and delicate pastries. I’d had few better meals anywhere. He wolfed a heaping assortment of delicacies and refilled his plate before I’d finished my first helping. “I can see you enjoy our humble fare?” he asked. My mouth full, I nodded enthusiastic agreement. “What do you think of our invasion?” he asked, chomping away.
“I wasn’t an on-the-ground observer but from what I saw and heard from a mile away on the other side of town, it was very well executed.”
“It should have been. We planned and prepared for it carefully.”
“What I don’t understand,” I said, “is why Iraq invaded Kuwait in the first place.”
“You haven’t spent much time in Arab nations, or you would understand.”
“I spent a number of months in Iran at the end of the Shah’s reign.”
“Iranians are not Arabs; they are Persians. Though I suppose in some ways not very different from us. The Shah,” he mused. “We had our differences but he wasn’t a bad man, not at all like the deranged fanatics that
overthrew him. You see, we Arabs—Iraqis. Kuwaitis, Egyptians, Palestinians, the Gulf States, northern Africans—we are brothers. And like brothers in a family we love one another with all our hearts but nevertheless have fights over this and that from time to time.
“To Iraq Kuwait is like a younger brother to whom the parents give everything. Iraq—Mesopotamia in olden times—is the site of the first civilization on Earth, the Sumerians, inventors of cuneiform writing. Some say even the garden of Adam and Eve was located here, in the region of Basrah. Whereas only a few generations ago the Kuwaitis were nothing but nomadic desert tribes, and roaming in not much of a desert either. When the Turks were defeated in the Great War the Europeans divided up the Ottoman Empire to suit their own purposes. They set Kuwait apart for its strategic position, denying Iraq a decent Gulf port, allotting to us instead just one river outlet and some swamps. For all our size, we have less than twenty miles of shoreline. How can we, as an oil exporting nation, prosper if we have no port?
“Kuwaitis number fewer than one million, whereas Iraqis are twenty times that many. Many Iraqis are poor, as you may have noticed on your ride over here. After the westerners discovered oil the Kuwaitis became rich beyond imagining. Now they bring foreigners in several times their own number and pay them to do their work, while they themselves bask in lives of ease and luxury. A tiny country and a big country side-by-side, and they have equally large oil reserves. It is all part of Allah’s plan, of course, but it is hard for us humans to overlook the unfairness. And perhaps it is Allah’s will that the unfairness should be ended. Do they have enough, those Kuwaitis? No, even despite their blessings they ignore OPEC quotas on oil production, selling more than their allotted share and thereby bringing the price down for the rest of us. And if that is not enough, while we were fighting Iran the Kuwaitis moved the border three miles north so they could steal oil from our Rumaila oil field. They might as well steal gold from our treasury.”
The Jake Fonko Series: Books 4, 5 & 6 Page 54
