‘Good Lord!’
‘But as I said, we’ve no collateral. Just this one source who may have had any one of a dozen motives for peddling such a yarn. Anyway, there’s nothing you can actually do about it, but I just thought you ought to know for background. In case it fits in with anything you pick up. Keep it to yourself please. We’ve told Washington and Tel Aviv, but treat it as info for us and the Americans only at this stage if you wouldn’t mind.’
‘Of course. But how alarming. If it’s true it means UNSCOM’s failed. All our efforts in vain.’
‘Yes, well let’s just hope it isn’t true, Mr Hardcastle.’
‘Quite.’
Hardcastle replaced the receiver and distractedly left the communications centre without another word to the women who ran it.
Dean Burgess was sitting in the briefing room in the first of four rows of plastic stacking chairs. Next to him was Major Martha Cok who’d been chattering to him solidly for the past five minutes. He’d been responding with monosyllables, his mind unable to quit thinking about the newspaper clipping his wife had inserted into his suitcase just before he left home and which he’d only discovered when opening it in the hotel that morning.
The clipping was a sign of her new attitude to him. His promotion within the Bureau had prompted Carole to take a stand about his performance as husband and father. Her complaint was common enough in his line of business – he was a ‘workaholic who treated his wife and children like toys, to be taken out and played with only when the Bureau allowed’. And she was right. He wasn’t proud of it and he knew his constant refrain of ‘Please be patient, it’s only for now’ had long ago lost all credibility. The trouble was that Carole was refusing to move with the kids to DC.
The clipping from the New York Post was a further sign of her desperation to hold the family together and for him to change. The news feature had concerned Pledge for the Family, a right-wing Christian movement that was gathering strength across the States on a platform of male renewal and rededication to family values. Joining such a movement of what he dismissed as religious head-bangers was unimaginable for him, and the fact that Carole had thought he might was a mark of how far apart they’d drifted.
‘Ah! Here is our great leader,’ whispered Martha Cok.
Andrew Hardcastle had entered the briefing room. Burgess saw at once that something was up. As the Englishman stepped onto the raised dais, his mind seemed elsewhere. He put his hand on the projection equipment as if trying to steady himself.
‘Good morning again, gentlemen – and ladies,’ he began, absent-mindedly sifting through the material he would need to project. He looked up as if to check his brief opening words had been understood by those with poor English. ‘I thought I would start with some background for those of you new to UNSCOM.’
He glanced down at Burgess, then at the rows behind him.
‘First thing to stress is the importance of what we are doing. Be under no illusions, ladies and gentlemen. What we are dealing with in Baghdad is a regime that has refined the art of deception to a level almost unprecedented in the history of the world.’ He paused for effect. ‘And our problem is this: our inspections have certainly produced conclusive evidence that biological weapon agents have been produced in Iraq, but no signs of stockpiles of the agents themselves. Finding those weapons – and they must exist – is what this UNSCOM mission is all about.
‘A quick reminder of the BW story so far. After the Gulf War, when the UN search for Iraq’s weapons of mass destruction began, Saddam’s men strenuously denied ever having had a serious biological weapons production programme. Chemical, yes. Mustard and nerve gases. But biological they denied. We didn’t believe them of course, but couldn’t find the evidence we needed. Then in 1995, you’ll remember, we had a breakthrough.
‘As you all know, one essential ingredient for producing large quantities of bacteria, viruses or toxins is growth medium. Well, in 1995 we discovered that suppliers in Britain and Switzerland had sold the Iraqis thirty-nine tonnes of the stuff back in 1988. Far more than they could possibly use legitimately in medical labs and so on. So we managed to acquire the delivery details from the companies concerned and then asked the Iraqis to account for these stocks.
‘It took time. But eventually they did come up with an extraordinary tale of woe. Ten tonnes had been lost in riots, they said. Other stocks had been burned accidentally. And, would you believe it, some had even got lost falling off the back of a truck! They even produced a fistful of blatantly forged documents to back up their nonsensical fairy tales. Anyway, to cut a long story short, eleven tonnes of the medium was accounted for legitimately, but for the remaining twenty-eight tonnes they had no valid explanation of use.
‘So in the end they did admit it. Yes, they had had a BW research programme, but had never weaponised the stuff. There were no piles of warheads and they’d destroyed all the stocks they’d produced.’ Hardcastle raised a derisory eyebrow. ‘They seemed to hope that would be enough to make the UN draw a line under the affair and ease up on sanctions. Well, my friends, they were nearly right. There was a move to abandon the inspections. But then came an amazing stroke of luck. Lieutenant General Hussein Kamel, a son-in-law of the president, fled to Jordan and admitted being a key figure in their biological weapons programme. Known as Project 324, it was based at Al Hakam, a sprawling site in the desert. He gave us a mass of documentary detail, including all the types of warheads they’d developed and tested and where they’d been stored. But then, you’ll remember, Hussein Kamel made a fatal mistake. Saddam asked him to return to Iraq with a promise of safety. The idiot did so, and was dead within days.
‘Anyway, the evidence he gave us meant we had ’em. Proof at last that everything they’d told us up until then was lies. We demolished Al Hakam with explosives a few months ago. And UNSCOM moved into a new phase, with more remote surveillance cameras set up in dozens of Iraqi labs and factories, the pictures live-linked back to the thirtieth floor of the UN building in New York. All these sites have a legitimate use of course – pharmaceutical plants, agricultural feed-stuff factories – but all have the capability also of being rapidly switched into BW production. But gentlemen – and ladies – despite those breakthroughs, despite the monitoring, we still haven’t found any stocks of anthrax, botulinum toxin, aflatoxins or ricin, all of which, according to General Kamel, have been turned into weapons by the Iraqi regime.’
And, Burgess remembered from the initial brief when he’d taken up his new duties in Washington, just a few grams of the stuff fed into the ventilation system of a New York subway interchange could kill thousands within days. His jet lag was easing, his mind was focused. Hardcastle’s enthusiasm had begun to get to him.
‘Some of these pathogens and toxins deteriorate when stored,’ the Englishman continued, ‘but with the Iraqis finally admitting to producing some eight thousand five hundred litres of anthrax, we assume some of it’s still around, hidden in places we haven’t yet got to, like Saddam’s own palaces.
‘Now. Enough of history. Let’s turn to this mission. Our primary target for inspection on day one is an animal feed factory. They produce single-cell protein concentrates for cattle using fermenters, freeze-dryers and milling equipment. All dual-use gear which without too much effort could be diverted into producing bacteria or toxins in huge volumes.’
He pointed to the far end of the room where a triple-glazed window looked out onto the antenna farm.
‘Would someone mind closing the blind?’
As the room darkened, he clicked on the projector light. Under its lens he slipped the U-2 photo taken a fortnight earlier.
‘About three weeks ago this thermal-imaging shot of the factory was taken by a UN aerial platform at about two in the morning Iraqi time. A Friday. The layout of the buildings is exactly as it was in previous photographs, but in this shot there is something extra visible. Have a look to one side of the main building.’ He pointed it out with the red beam of a hand-h
eld laser. ‘What you see here is a truck – a four tonner, according to the photo analysts in New York. And –’ The red beam moved a small distance to the left ‘– what you see here is some sizeable object apparently being moved from the truck into the building. Now, definition isn’t exactly wonderful. We can’t really tell what the object is from this view. But –’ he replaced the photo with another one ‘– with a little computer enhancement, the object is substantially enlarged and actually takes on a shape.’
He turned to his audience to see if they’d recognised what it was. In the front row Dean Burgess shook his head. To him it was just a lump.
‘One can’t be absolutely certain, but to every expert who’s studied it closely it looks like some piece of milling equipment. You see this cone shape? Could be a hopper. It’s the sort of machine that could turn a cake of dried anthrax spores or botulinum toxin into a powder with grains between one and five microns in diameter. And that’s exactly the size needed if the agent is to be weaponised effectively.’
‘The milling machines already at the factory can’t do that?’ Burgess enquired.
‘No. They produce a much coarser particle, which is quite unsuitable because it won’t stay airborne for long.’
‘And this fabrik,’ the Dutch vet asked, ‘it is in Baghdad?’
‘Um, at this stage you don’t need to know where the factory is, Martha.’ He’d spoken more sharply than he’d meant. It had sounded like a rebuke, and the pointed correction of her English a trifle rude. ‘It’s the old need-to-know thing,’ he went on, his voice softer. ‘Preventing the Iraqis knowing where we’ll pounce next is absolutely vital. If they have got something at this factory which they shouldn’t have, they’ll sure as hell move it somewhere else if they get the slightest hint we’re coming.’
Burgess remembered that when he had met Hardcastle in New York a few days back, the Englishman had told him there had been leaks from within the multinational UNSCOM teams and several inspections had been turned into a farce.
‘Yes, okay,’ Major Cok answered, ‘but can you tell us perhaps if this feed factory has been inspected before?’
‘Yes it was. A little while back. No hint of anything out of place at the time. We decided to install some remote cameras though, because of the potential dual use of the plant. All the relevant processing equipment is listed and tagged of course, so we’ll know if anything’s missing or been added.’
Hardcastle removed the photo from the projector and replaced it with a drawing of the layout of the factory made at the last inspection. He pointed out the main office block.
‘We’ll need to go through their files meticulously. The MD of the company has a BSc from a British university, so he’s likely to be pretty organised in keeping notes of everything that goes on there.’
Burgess reacted and felt the Dutch woman doing the same. Hardcastle could be unconsciously arrogant at times, as if only British-educated scientists were capable of such thoroughness. For an audience like this he would do well to choose his words more carefully, Burgess decided.
The beam of the laser pointer moved across the plan.
‘We believe that just here there’s a small laboratory,’ Hardcastle went on blithely. ‘Normally used for test batches and so on. If they have been brewing something they shouldn’t, it could well be in here that we find some trace of it. We’ll need to check the lab from top to bottom. There’ll be masks, gloves and gowns available for the team that does that. Then finally, over here, there’s the freeze-drying plant. If they’ve used some of the equipment for lyophilising anthrax spores, they’ll have a devil of a job cleaning it afterwards, so it’s quite likely to be “broken down” or “waiting for spare parts” when we have a look around.’
He switched off the projector. ‘Now, about our methods. Urn, would you mind?’ Hardcastle raised his eyebrows in the direction of the back row, indicating that the blinds could be opened again. ‘Thank you so much. I think the most useful thing we could do next is for Pierre to organise you into four separate teams so we can do some role-playing to remind you of procedures. And it’ll give newcomers an idea of what to expect from our hosts when we get on the ground. It’s not always pleasant and the quicker you get used to that the better.
‘Remember gentlemen – and ladies – this may at times seem like a game, but it’s a deadly serious one. That’s why we spend time preparing for it here, secure from eavesdroppers. Once in Iraq we’ll be under scrutiny the whole time. Old hands know this, but it bears repeating: the Iraqi secret police will be listening to your every breath. Your hotel room is bugged, and so are many of the public rooms you may visit and restaurant tables. Our base – the Baghdad Monitoring and Verification Centre – that isn’t safe either. Nor are the vehicles. Just assume that everything the Iraqis can bug, they will have done. So do not discuss anything confidential with one another unless you are in the open air, well away from anything that could contain a directional microphone.
‘The time now is after ten-thirty. Our flight departs at fourteen hundred hours, with an ETA at Habbaniyah of sixteen-thirty. By the time we get to the hotel it’ll be seven or eight in the evening. Just time for a meal and some sleep.’
Burgess nodded appreciatively.
‘Then, at nine tomorrow morning we’ll reveal to the Iraqis where we want to inspect. Remember the bottom line, ladies and gentlemen,’ Hardcastle concluded. ‘We’re as certain as we can be that Saddam still possesses a couple of dozen ballistic missiles and a stockpile of mass destruction warheads. With those he could cause huge and horrific casualties in Israel, Saudi Arabia or Iran. Our job is to find them if we possibly can, but failing that, to keep up the pressure on Saddam so he never has the chance to bring ’em out and use ’em.’
A little under three hours later the motor-coach deposited the team outside a hangar on the military flight-line of Bahrain’s Al Muharraq airport. The baggage was quickly unloaded onto a trolley for transportation to the aircraft. Each of the inspectors carried a small rucksack large enough to hold the personal kit needed to keep going for forty-eight hours in case the Iraqis played games with them on their arrival.
As Burgess got out he heard the deep-throat crackle of a jet. A Bahrain Air Force F-16 hurtled down the runway for the start of a training flight.
The afternoon heat was as fierce and dry as a sauna. They entered the hangar, grateful for its shade. Along the flank wall was a row of offices once used by aircraft maintenance teams with windows overlooking the hangar floor.
‘Right. Now pay attention,’ Hardcastle said, clasping his hands like a school-teacher. ‘At the first window you’ll be issued with UN hats and armbands, and a forty-eight-hour emergency ration pack. At the second you’ll be given an envelope for all your personal stuff. Put everything in it that you won’t be needing in Iraq, including your national passports. Anything that identifies who you are and where you come from, leave it here. In exchange you’ll be issued with special UN documents. From now on you don’t belong to any particular nation any more, just to the UN.’
Burgess collected the envelope with his name on and began emptying his pockets. Credit cards, FBI badge, personal diary and wallet. He began stuffing them all in, then stopped to take from the wallet the Polaroid of Carole and the kids, snapped in front of the tree last Christmas. He looked at it for a couple of seconds, wanting it with him. But nothing personal, Hardcastle had said. Nothing the Iraqis could use against him if things got unpleasant. He pushed it into the envelope and closed the seal.
When he’d finished, he found Hardcastle waiting for him. The Englishman took him to one side.
‘Just to keep you informed,’ Hardcastle breathed, his voice too low for anyone else to overhear. ‘The British Secret Intelligence Service has picked up something that’s rather alarming. Word is the Iraqis have managed to assemble some anthrax warheads in recent weeks and to smuggle them out of the country.’
‘Shoot!’
‘No word on when or where t
hey’re to be used. Can’t even be certain the tip-off’s true. Washington’s been told of course, but just wanted you to know. Puts everything we’re doing into context, don’t you think?’
‘Absolutely, Andrew,’ he breathed.
Fifteen minutes later they sat strapped into the webbing seats lining the fuselage of a UN L-100 Hercules, on charter from a company in South Africa. Buckled firmly to the aircraft floor in front of them were pallets piled with the equipment and supplies they would need for their mission.
Dean Burgess felt the adrenalin buzz of an assignment under way. On the opposite side of the fuselage Hardcastle looked drawn and anxious. The Englishman hated flying, he’d confessed as they’d boarded. As the four big turbo-props spun up to their operating revs Burgess dug the foam plugs deeper into his ears. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the red nylon straps that supported the seats. He felt dog tired suddenly. The travel was catching up with him again.
His mind was still churning over what Hardcastle had whispered to him a few minutes ago – anthrax warheads already in place. Somewhere outside Iraq. Somewhere that might even be the United States of America . . .
Keeping him going up to now had been the childlike sense of adventure he always felt at the start of a new mission, but as his mind began to fog, that stimulus evaporated. In its place there emerged a dark foreboding, some premonition that what he was embarking on would have consequences far beyond anything he’d imagined.
As he began to doze, he had a nightmare vision of an imminent disaster with Carole and the kids in the midst of it, their faces turned his way, begging him to save them.
He shivered, because in his bones he sensed he was going to be powerless to help.
7
Monday, 30 September
Fire Hawk Page 8
