by Dale Amidei
Colby thought for a moment. “It sounds like he’s in the mood for a trip to the big city and wants to bring some friends. Doesn’t seem like something the Ambassador can help us out with.”
Schuster must have been thinking similar thoughts. “I could rig a space out by the airport. We could make him feel welcome enough. Arrange for some food, some space and a chance to talk. We could test-drive the team’s sales pitch. It’s even on his side of town.”
“I like the way you think.” Colby grinned. “How soon can it happen?”
“Sounds like the first part of next week. Hell, the guy wanted to be here yesterday.”
“Make it happen, Bernie. Your boss is jazzed.” He hung up, picking up another line for a call to the Ambassador's office. Good news begged to be shared, and Colby wanted to make up for some lost ground.
Chapter 9: Peace Unto You
Kameldorn had spent a lot of time cruising around the streets of the Fajr neighborhood without seeing any vehicles in the photographs that he had taken, until today. It was the Peugeot. The car had different licensing but the same VIN as provided to him by Commander al-Jabouri. Kameldorn had passed a tense evening waiting for the chance to approach the car closely enough to read the plate through the windshield and another dangerous minute on the street with his Surefire light shining down as he made a note of the seventeen-character alphanumeric.
His targets were in a semi-industrial area, located in an automobile repair shop. The owners had abandoned or been chased from the area by the sectarian struggles that engulfed Baghdad. The two in question resembled the observers who had been watching the perimeter as al-Khafji met with Raad’s advance men, and possibly they were also the shooters who had killed them. Confirming the VIN clinched his theory.
For a moment Kameldorn sat in his vehicle—the Trooper again—and thought out his next move. The street lighting did not illuminate the area around the garage well even when the electricity was flowing. He saw enough black shadow where he could lose himself should he have a reason; he also saw a route that could take him close enough to the space between the service bay and the neighboring structures. A glow flickered in the service area from an arc welder, augmented by the single bulb of a work lamp that hung there. Together the light sources barely distinguished against the translucent overhead door the shadows of two kneeling men.
He looked fore and aft to make sure that he had the street to himself then quietly exited the Trooper, easing the door closed until it clicked. He stayed on the darkest path, going to the trouble of crossing the street half a block farther down then doubling back, closing behind the still shops that allowed him his stealthy approach.
Kameldorn watched his footing, avoiding any debris or broken glass that might produce a telltale noise. The pocket of his photographer’s vest produced a KWL-1000 portable amplifier to which he attached earbuds and a contact microphone. A few minutes later he was crouching in the dark beside the garage, listening to al-Khafji’s men work inside. They were chattering now and again in Arabic and seemed stressed over the dimensions of whatever they were welding.
“Idiot, remember the offset! Do you want to be in the room if the rack were to tip over?” one voice exclaimed.
“I am working to the dimensions that you gave to me. I can add a support to this end. It will take just a few minutes.”
A sound followed of a hammer pounding on something that rang like a pipe, forcing Kameldorn to turn down the volume for a moment. He heard a cutting wheel and finally the arc welder starting in again. His curiosity peaked. Higher on the wall there was a window. He raised himself slowly and gently repositioned the contact mic against the metal siding of the building as he continued to listen.
The intermittent blaze of the arc welder was working for him, with the second man turned away from the blinding light. It illuminated the area well enough for Kameldorn to see that they were constructing a frame, and a heavy one, such as would hold gas cylinders or … something.
He saw the drilled shell of a deactivated 122mm howitzer round that they were using as a template for the rack. He cursed to himself: they were building a support for Soviet-designed artillery rounds. Saddam had stockpiled millions, and they were now a popular component of improvised explosive devices and car bombs.
The garage, he knew, was ideal for converting a vehicle into a weapon of mass destruction. Their sedan could roll in one end of the work bay to be fitted with its modifications and payload, and roll right out the other end in assembly-line fashion. The welding finished, and he ducked as the worker’s companion started to turn. He could hear the noises of them testing the fit of the dummy round in the rack.
“Better, much better. Come, Amir, it grows late. We can finish tomorrow night. The side braces and the mounting pads will take too much time. I will help you stow the round and the equipment.”
Kameldorn clicked off his unit and hurriedly wrapped the earbuds and mic around the amplifier, shoving them back inside his vest. He sought the deepest and darkest shadow he could find in the narrow alley, listening intently as the men secured the garage and walked toward the Peugeot parked curbside on the opposite corner of the building. Not until he heard the car doors slam, the engine come to life and the vehicle pull away did he move. He even then counted to three hundred before rising from the concealing darkness.
He reversed his route in returning to the Trooper and again sat there, observing the building and the general area. The men had picked a good location for themselves but unwittingly also for him. He had something special formulating in his mind. For these two, he wanted nothing but the best.
The following morning a clean-cut, well-dressed man sat in the house that he had been provided. It featured sparse but comfortable furnishings and was stocked with canned and fresh foods. Women straightened up daily although they were to be gone by the times he arranged to return. He had no use for the company of women, especially Iraqi women. He had no use for anything Iraqi except its eventual alliance under the governing hand of the Islamic Republic of Iran.
He carefully sorted the two sets of identification that he possessed, one Iraqi, the other Saudi. The Saudi papers he hid behind a loosened baseboard molding in a space he had hollowed for the purpose. His official identification had been placed in an Iranian Revolutionary Guard commander’s safe three weeks ago, a short distance from the border crossing at Mehran. Even that did not bear his birth name, which he had not used in so long a time that it was irrelevant.
In most company he was known as Abu Bakir Raad, a Sunni cover name that he used to ease relations with his allies in Iraq and elsewhere. He served Allah as a discreet enabler of allies, whether they were Shi'a or Sunni, if they advanced the interests of the theocracy that ruled his nation. He could direct funds, equipment and materials toward those ends in quantities a state sponsor could provide. He did so in many places. Lately his focus had been here, on the battlegrounds against the Western infidel in Iraq.
He had provided the cadre of experts that taught the diverse factions how to convert military materials left from the Hussein regime into weapons that they could get close to the enemy. The roadside and car bombs, the suicide vests and satchels were all being used effectively today. When the various players depleted the local supplies, he arranged a sanitized replenishment from his country’s own military stores.
He had left Iraq in December after a breach in security occurred and an incident followed that unnerved his masters in Teheran. Another breach had nearly undone his return, and he had allowed his hosts to clean up that situation rather than suffer another setback. As a result, he was more dependent than usual on his Sunni allies during this trip. It would be a short visit, a straightforward oversight of some production facilities. Once used, the workers could dismantle the locations until the next such operation. He could then return to Iran via the same network of rural properties through which he was shepherded on the route into Baghdad.
The cell he preferred was the Al Qaeda in Iraq
network run by Muhammad Qasim al-Khafji, who maintained a much lower profile than the suicidal attention whore al-Zarqawi. Al-Khafji projected a style closer to his own, preferring to never make himself known, to never be given credit and to operate efficiently for a long time. Raad felt no personal need to achieve martyrdom. The rewards for being this good at what he did were sizeable when he returned to Teheran. The self-rewards that he arranged for himself were also significant, siphoned and funneled into Swiss numbered accounts and written off as a cost of doing business by his government.
Raad prepared a simple meal to go with the tea. He was a civilized man. Though the visitor today was his host in this country, for now this was his house, which today meant that he was the host. He had just finished when he heard footsteps on the walk approaching the front door. A quiet knock sounded.
Raad opened the door. Al-Khafji was there with his two retainers, and Raad saw the man glance over his shoulder, checking the interior of the house and smiling.
“Peace unto you, my brother.” Al-Khafji spoke the traditional greeting while extending his hand, which Raad took.
“Peace, mercy, and blessings to you, comrade and brother,” Raad responded, adding to the blessings offered by his visitor.
Al-Khafji turned to the man on his right, half a step behind. “Omar, please take up your station with Amir.” The man nodded and motioned to the other. They took up positions at diagonally opposite corners, allowing each to observe two of the four sides of the small house. Al-Khafji was the first to release the grip on his hand. Raad knew that he would for it was also good etiquette. He motioned the man inside. “Come in, come in. If you would like some refreshment, I have tea. Please eat also.”
“Thank you, thank you. I shall; it has been a busy day.” Al-Khafji settled to his right. “There is much news, God be praised.”
Raad poured, offering some cold meats and warmed bread. “The brothers have been put to good work?”
Al-Khafji nodded, sipping his tea with an approving sound and gathering a portion of food. “Yes, we have had great success. We are preparing seven vehicles, and, God willing, seven targets to go with them. We need two more drivers, but it will soon be the day of prayer, and we may yet find that God speaks to the faithful.”
Raad nodded. “This is all good. I have news as well. The American State Department has sent more meddlers to trouble our brothers in Al Anbar. We have received word that they try to tempt the faithful in the Province into compliance. They seek more control over the countryside. Some, the weak and the ambitious, are flocking to them.”
Al-Khafji put down his cup. “Is it an accident that they come at this time? Can God have any other plan than for us to strike at them?”
“Surely He cannot.” Raad was delighted that al-Khafji seemed agreeable. “I would put good use to one of your seven vehicles. The information I have is that the Americans and the traitors to the faithful will meet soon at their airport facility. They think they move in secret, but still we see and hear.”
“I envy your resources, my friend. Of course, we will do this for you: one vehicle and one driver. I will see to it myself.”
Raad nodded. “I will assist. The route and the checkpoint we will need to choose carefully. I should have the day and time soon. It will be a tremendous blow, one that the news media of the enemy will not ignore.”
“Praise God!” al-Khafji exclaimed. “You are His servant, you and the information you provide to us so often. It was truly a blessing that He led me to haven in your country those years past.”
Raad smiled. “And your service is a blessing also, my friend, yours and that of your brothers in jihad. I am instructed to renew the pledge of my nation’s support in your every good effort.”
“Then it is a good day in the sight of God.” Al-Khafji raised his cup, drinking again. “Much work remains, my friend. We should be ready by week’s end for final preparations. I will keep you informed.”
When he finished, Raad rose with him. “And I will assemble the details for the deployment of the vehicle you are so kind to provide. I promise that it will be well used.”
They moved to the front door where al-Khafji turned and nodded. “Of that I have no doubt, my friend. Until tomorrow, farewell and peace unto you.”
“Peace, my friend. God shall watch you until your return.” He watched the Saudi exit, who motioned to his retainers to follow. Raad closed the door behind them. They were useful men. As a man often does after finishing work, he felt a need to wash his hands.
The Iranian changed clothes, donning well-washed working garments that would blend with the crowds of Baghdad. An envelope with an impressive amount of American currency went into his inside coat pocket. A battered hat, a list of numbers and a prepaid cell phone were all else he needed today.
He began his route by going into the neighborhoods around the Green Zone where he had found service workers who moved with ease through the offices of the governments and Coalition forces that headquartered there. The neighborhoods near the airport he worked in a similar fashion, having co-opted janitors, deliverymen, cleaning staff and other low-paid employees with access to offices of interest.
The marketplaces were also clearinghouses of ready information. He visited as many as he could although the Hurriyah marketplace was no longer a stop. With his ready supply of cash, he bought the loyalty of those referred to him by his contacts. Afterward, a short message was all that it would take to bring them to a discreet but public area to exchange whatever information they had for their fee, and that varied by their status. He kept no notes. Instead, he would memorize the information or at most send a text message to an e-mail address that he could access via the Internet; he would then immediately delete the original from his phone.
He now sat at a small table with a Styrofoam cup of coffee and a showerma, pita stuffed with lamb that had been sliced from a huge rotating column of roasting meat. This was the last of the marketplaces that he would visit today. The Americans had been busy, busier than he imagined. In their excitement they had forgotten any discretion that might have occurred to more careful men, he thought, or perhaps to more intelligent ones.
He knew that on Sunday the Americans would receive Anbari Sheik Muhammad Zola al-Dulaimi for an introductory meeting and meal in a hangar space that they were preparing for the occasion at the airport. He knew the time. He knew the menu. He knew the vehicles that they would be driving as they approached from the Green Zone. The Americans were efficient and loved to share information about such things, and print the information, and stack it on their desks to let the rest of their office see how productive they were. Consequently, some of his informants who worked nights straightening and cleaning those offices spent as much time reading as they did doing anything else. It meant that he needed always more money for his sources, but money Teheran was glad to spend. They would be glad when they saw what this trip’s expenditures had bought them and the changes their investment would bring about.
Raad finished his lunch and his coffee, whispering his remembrance that food was a gift from Allah, and crumpled his cup and waxed paper to deposit in the nearby garbage can. He had news to deliver. His comrade al-Khafji was a distance away, but there was still time in abundance. He would see that no impatience led to hurried mistakes or unfortunate oversight. They would not have another chance that equaled this.
Late that afternoon Raad had parked his old Toyota pickup six blocks away from his destination and meandered through the streets of downtown Baghdad. The location was a former repair facility. It was found equipped with a hydraulic service rack and air compressors for the tools that had still been locked in the back room. Al-Khafji and his men snapped the padlocks and cut their way in using the shop’s own acetylene torch. Elsewhere in the city, he knew, others of al-Khafji’s cell were working on similar projects, preparing vehicle bombs for the simultaneous attacks that Al Qaeda loved to use as its calling card. He wandered through the back entrance.
A b
lack Volga sedan sat in the service bay, trunk lid and rear seat removed, and its modified rear suspension sitting six inches higher than normal in the back. He could see two of al-Khafji’s men struggle to position the 25-plus kilograms of the 122mm artillery projectile into the trunk-mounted rack while al-Khafji himself supervised. Raad felt no need to announce his presence, or bother the procedure, in any startling way.
“Istanna, istanna! Have him move the securing strap first.” Al-Khafji paced nervously from one side to the other, surveying the placement of the projectile.
The third of five rounds went slowly into place as his men grunted, and the rear suspension sagged to a level closer to normal. Once they had started securing the metal band that would hold the round in place, a third man in the back began to attach the fuse that would wire the round into the electrical firing system. It would remain unarmed before the vehicle was sent on its way.
In a low voice, Raad laughed. Al-Khafji finally noticed him standing there. As his men continued positioning the round, the Saudi straightened and wiped his brow with a handkerchief, taking the few steps to where Raad leaned on the shop’s workbench.
“It is no laughing matter, my friend. This is a dangerous job, and some rounds we use are very old.”
Raad clapped his comrade on the shoulder. “The rounds age better than the fuses. That is where the real danger lies! Fortunately, those are much easier to handle. You make good progress, my friend.”
Al-Khafji nodded. “We will be ready on time, I assure you.”
Raad relaxed against the workbench. “We have even more time. Until Sunday, so I hear from more than one.”
“This is good; time is not always in such supply. The targets that we have selected can wait the extra day. Seven cars at once should send enough of a message that we are still here, one would think.”
“And afterward I will be leaving again. I will use the same route,” Raad said, “if it is still your advice.”
