by Oliver North
“How'd you know I was on this plane?” Harrod asked.
“Your deputy gave me your schedule. I told him it was urgent that I meet with you today. There's an important development that we must discuss.”
“Ride with me back to the White House—we can have a snack sent up to my office from the White House Mess.”
Komulakov shook his head. “I'm sorry, Simon. As soon as I brief you on what's happening, I must fly back to New York. My plane is parked over there.” He pointed to a smaller twenty-passenger jet nearby. “Can you delay your trip back to the city by twenty minutes, Simon? It would help me a great deal.”
Harrod nodded, then gestured for Komulakov to get into the backseat of his limo. “We can talk here. My car's secure,” Harrod said as he climbed into the back of the limo with the Russian. The White House driver got out and returned to the terminal.
Komulakov leaned across the seat and lowered his voice. “Last week, the Mossad passed along an unsubstantiated rumor of plans for a major defection from Iraq,” he began.
“Yes, the CIA briefed me about it on the weekend. Seems that Saddam's son-in-law Hussein Kamil wants to get out of Iraq.”
“When I heard about it, I put one of my former comrades on the case just to see whether it is true or not. It is!” the Russian exclaimed. “Kamil sent some feelers through one of the German pharmaceutical corporations that make his chemical weapons. Kamil wanted the Germans to bring him to the West.”
“Boy, I'll bet the German was happy—closing the door to one of his company's most lucrative contracts, having to give up those million-dollar commissions. What'd he say?”
The Russian shook his head, “Their conversations were not recorded, but the Mossad has information that the German turned him down. If he helped Kamil, he'd be a marked man. He felt that Saddam would send someone to assassinate them both.”
Harrod laughed. “Saddam's so dirty that he'll probably terminate the German just for listening to what Kamil wants to do.” Then he added, “Does anyone in Iraq know anything about this plan?”
“I don't think so. Kamil seems like a bright guy, but there's a story going around that he's had a brain tumor or something. One thing is for sure, he's a survivor, and he's moved up the ladder over there after every purge. There's no doubt he's been around long enough to know his way around. Maybe because he's a relative he's not under suspicion.”
Harrod laughed again. “Are you kidding? Saddam couldn't care less about that. He'd butcher his own mother and invite all of Baghdad to watch if he thought she wasn't loyal.”
“So far there is no evidence of Kamil's plans. But if the Mossad, the CIA, and my operatives know about it, it will be leaked eventually,” General Komulakov said, adding, “Here is what I think we should do. My agent is in Baghdad—”
“A double agent?” Harrod interrupted. “This could be a setup.”
“Yes, my man is a double agent, but no, it is not a setup. He is to be trusted as much as you and I trust each other.” Harrod wasn't sure that the Russian's assurance was worth much, but he knew that this game of intrigue had certain conventions, and he was willing to give the man the benefit of the doubt—for now.
The Russian continued. “My man has been working with Kamil for more than two years to try and sell him three nuclear artillery warheads that he claims to have in the Ukraine. It's not true, of course, but he is able to keep Kamil's interest and the pretense of working on the matter while he has a chance to gain some rather decent intelligence.
“I told my man to not let Kamil know that his message to the Germans was turned down and to say that they had contacted my man to get Kamil to the West. It's a dangerous move—Kamil could kill him for knowing too much. But my guy thinks he can string it along for awhile, simply because he knows that Kamil won't kill him until he knows who else knows.”
Harrod thought for a moment and wondered what his role in all of this should be. A Hussein Kamil defection would make for an interesting press conference, and he might earn some points for the President, who certainly hated Saddam more than Kamil ever could. Harrod made a proposal. “How soon can you find out if this Kamil guy has something to offer the West in exchange for getting him safely out of Iraq? I'd guess he figures that he's a pretty big fish and could ask for some serious cash and other perks in exchange for some state secrets.”
Komulakov reminded Harrod, “Well, he is the head of their internal state security apparatus, he's the one buying all the parts for their nuclear programs, and he's the guy in charge of their weapons of mass destruction. Yes, I'd say that he could tell us a thing or two.”
“I mean things that we don't already know,” Harrod said.
The Russian reached for the door handle with one hand and extended the other to Harrod, who shook it. “I will call you as soon as we have something new,” he said as he exited the limo.
International Scientific Trading Offices
________________________________________
17 Agricultural Circle
Baghdad, Iraq
Saturday, 18 February 1995
0955 Hours, Local
Leonid Dotensk liked working with Dimitri Komulakov. In their days together in the KGB's Department V, Komulakov had referred to Dotensk as “my Ukrainian.” They had retired together from the KGB in 1990 when the Soviet Union was breaking up, and Komulakov had used his well-honed diplomatic skills to land himself at the UN. Dotensk, on the other hand, had returned to Kiev and opened a black-market arms trading company—but stayed in touch with his old boss in his new job. Dotensk had offices all over the Middle East but particularly liked this one, in Baghdad, because the Iraqi's needs were so great—and their money was so good.
Dotensk was enjoying his morning tea when he heard someone enter the outer office area and talk to his assistant. The assistant quickly slipped into Dotensk's office and gestured that he had an important visitor. Dotensk recognized the voice and told his assistant, “Show him in. And bring some tea.”
Then he got up from behind his desk to receive the visitor. “Ah, my dear friend. Thank you for coming. I am embarrassed that you have to see me in such modest accommodations. I should have met you at your office, but I must talk to you about very urgent and important matters, and I thought that my office might have fewer … uh … ‘distractions.’”
The visitor, Hussein Kamil, entered the room. He was wearing his Iraqi military uniform rather than Arab garb, and he seemed less arrogant here than he did when Dotensk met with him at the SSS offices or at the presidential palace. Normally Kamil would have an entourage—mostly bodyguards—who accompanied him everywhere. As head of the Amn Al-Khass, he usually welcomed this protection, but today he wanted no one to know where he was or what he was doing. He had called his office and told them that he was coming in later, due to working all night. The next trick was to elude the security force that was guarding his mansion, which was no small deception. But with the help of his driver, he had pulled it off.
“You said that you have important information for me,” Kamil said, not wanting to waste time with small talk.
Dotensk took the cue and led Kamil to a big leather chair. When Kamil sat, Dotensk leaned over and whispered, “Do you have my offices under surveillance? Because if you do, we cannot talk here.” Kamil jumped up and gestured for the Ukrainian to follow him.
The two said nothing as they hurried down the stairs from the third-floor offices of the “trading” company that Dotensk used as a front for his arms deals. They used a back entrance and climbed into a waiting car. Kamil's personal driver was waiting with the motor running. The tinted windows of the Mercedes kept curious onlookers from knowing who was inside, but the late-model luxury car would hardly be inconspicuous. Only a few Iraqis would have the means to have such an automobile, and most of these would be among the trusted military and political elite in Saddam's crumbling empire.
The driver drove away from the office district at Kamil's order. Dotensk knew the Arabic lang
uage well, so when Kamil instructed his driver on their destination, Dotensk was surprised to hear him call the man “Abu”—a name when used with another name usually meant “father of…” but by itself was an honorific name that was often meant as a term of affection. Kamil seemed to sense the Ukrainian's thoughts. “Abu is like a father to me … his family has served ours for some forty years or more. I call him ‘Daddy,’ but his given name is Khalil al Hardi.”
“Where are we going?” Dotensk asked as they approached the outskirts of town.
“We will drive a few miles into the desert. I cannot be too careful about spies and others who mean to know my business,” Kamil said.
In another ten minutes they were several miles away from the city. Its skyline was still quite visible to the southwest, but there were no other roads within miles. The Mercedes came to a stop, and they sat there in the air-conditioned comfort inside the car.
“Now what is it that you wanted to tell me?” Kamil asked.
Dotensk glanced at the driver.
“It is all right,” Kamil said. “Just speak to me in English or Russian. Abu does not understand either of those languages.”
Dotensk chose to speak in Russian and began his narrative. “First, I want you to know that I have heard from one of my contacts in Germany that you have sent out feelers to his firm that you would like to defect.”
Kamil seemed immediately agitated by this. “How? When did you hear? I only told one man whom I thought I could trust.”
“Well, from now on you cannot trust anyone—except me. I know that you have suspected that I am a spy for the Russians. Well, that is only half of the story. I also have good connections with the American CIA. These are the people that you should be dealing with.”
Kamil was interested. “Tell me more.”
“The Germans will have nothing to do with you and your family. They won't even guarantee your safety or give you asylum. The people that you have been dealing with in Germany have connections with the far right, so the Bonn government won't even bother to talk with you. The pharmaceutical firm that supplies you has already seriously embarrassed them.
“But the Americans are different. Without divulging your name,” Dotensk lied, “I have made some general inquiries. The Americans will help you to get a new identity and locate you wherever you want to go. And, they may be willing to pay for information that you can give them.”
Kamil thought for a moment then smiled. “I never thought I'd be able to make contact with the CIA. The Americans were my first choice. And you say you can help me contact them?”
“Before the end of the day I can have a plan for you. You will have extremely valuable information for them. Of course they will help you.”
“What should I do?” Kamil asked.
“Nothing. Just leave everything to me. I am the only one that you can trust. Here are my terms: first, I want you to go forward with the purchase of the three nuclear warheads that I have offered to sell to your government. I want 50 million Swiss francs for each one of them. You can arrange for payment to be transferred into my account in Kiev. But since it will take some time to transfer the weapons to Iraqi soil without the UN or others knowing about it, you will have to trust me. You must have the funds transferred before you defect, and I will give you the arrangements you must follow in order for the CIA to get you and your family out of Iraq safely.”
“I see.”
“And there is one other thing,” Dotensk added. “I must have something to give to the CIA that will satisfy them that you will be worth the money. Give me some information that I can take to them—something big—that will give you great credibility and show good faith on your part.”
Kamil sat there for awhile thinking. Anything that he'd tell Dotensk would compromise him and his family and put them immediately at risk. He knew that his brothers-in-law would not hesitate to hang him, nor would Saddam for that matter. But Kamil also knew that Dotensk was right: the CIA would not pursue this deal without some kind of enticement. Then he knew exactly the right information to secure their interest and sincere help.
“On March 6, there is going to be a meeting at President Saddam's summer palace in Tikrit. It is for the purpose of enlisting help from a former Saudi exile named Osama bin Laden to carry out acts of destruction—upon the West. They plan to make those other attacks on their embassies and military bases look like schoolboy pranks. These will be well-orchestrated attacks by teams of commandos.
“I will also be at that summit, and I will make highly detailed notes for the CIA,” Kamil explained. “This will be my first installment for bringing my family and me out of Iraq. But tell the CIA that information in the future will cost them. It will cost them plenty.”
Kamil knew that this information was good enough to accomplish what he and Dotensk wanted. It would whet the CIA's appetite for more. He also knew that the CIA would not be able to infiltrate the March 6 meeting on its own. Saddam's Tikrit palace was surrounded for thirty kilometers on every side by Iraqi air defense sites and by the armored division of the Republican Guard—one of the elite units that had been spared destruction when the Americans had come roaring across the desert out of Kuwait. They were loyal to their benefactor, Saddam Hussein. Of any place in Iraq, here Saddam was most secure. No CIA operative could get past this security and gain access to the meeting.
The two men in the back of the Mercedes shook hands on the agreement, and Dotensk made arrangements to meet Kamil later that night if he could get an answer from his CIA contact that soon.
“Abu, please wait outside for a moment,” Kamil said in Arabic, leaning toward the kindly old man in the front seat. Then he turned to Dotensk. “Will you please join me outside of the car for a moment so that we can formally seal our pact? I have some whiskey in the trunk, and we can toast each others' success.” Kamil put on his sunglasses and curiously pulled on his black leather uniform gloves.
Warily Dotensk opened the door and stood outside. He loosened his suit jacket and surreptitiously removed his gun from its holster and slipped it into his coat pocket after flipping the safety off. Then he walked around the rear of the car to join Kamil and his driver. When his eyes cleared the roof of the sedan, he saw that Kamil was pointing a gun at him.
“What's this?” he demanded. His instincts were immediately focused, and the hair on the back of his neck stood up. Within microseconds his mind wrestled with counterprotective actions. But logic told him that he'd be dead before he could execute any of those options. He hated himself for not keeping his hand in his pocket around the gun and trigger. As least he would have had a more equitable advantage. Now he was helpless and felt fear stealing over him.
“Now, Leonid,” Kamil said. “Hand me your gun—handle first. Don't be afraid. If I wanted to kill you, you'd be dead already. This is just a precaution to satisfy my paranoia. Your gun, please.”
Dotensk knew that Kamil was right—he could have killed him before he walked around the back of the car if he really meant to do so. He smiled to ease tensions and handed the gun over to Kamil.
“Leonid, you said earlier that I must not trust anyone. You are absolutely right about that. But you also said that I must trust you, and I cannot do that with full assurance just yet. I need some insurance that I can trust you to stay here in Iraq, work with me in planning my escape, and not betray me. I need some insurance that you can be trusted.”
After saying that, he took Dotensk's gun and looked at it. “My, this is beautiful. It's German, I see. Nickel-plated … nine millimeter … a Sig automatic—beautiful.” Kamil put his own gun back in its holster and played with the Ukrainian's pistol, feeling its heft, holding it out at arm's length, and squinting over the sight.
Then, while holding it up and sighting down the barrel toward the distant dunes, he slowly turned and fired two quick shots into the head of his driver. The sounds of the cartridges being fired were loud and reverberated across the sandy dunes. The first bullet entered the driver'
s left eye socket and exploded in his brain; the second smashed his nose and also entered the skull. The old man arched backward and fell heavily to the ground.
Dotensk was startled and was poised to act, but Kamil brought the pistol back and aimed squarely at his face. “What was that for!?” he asked Kamil.
“That is my insurance. It will help me to trust you, knowing that the Amn Al-Khass will have the bullets from the gun that killed my loyal and trusted chauffeur. And my agents will find that gun and it will betray you … and you will be executed,” Kamil said in a matter-of-fact tone. “That will happen—unless everything goes as you have suggested,” he added.
Then Kamil turned back to the man he called “Daddy” and fired two more rounds into his heart. “Some additional insurance,” he smiled, “in case the ballistics on the other bullets are inconclusive after they broke through the skull.”
Dotensk looked at the poor man lying in the sand, blood spilling from his body. This man is an absolute madman! he thought. What have I gotten myself into?
The hardened Ukrainian arms merchant said nothing, but this kind of evil was too much even for Dotensk.
“Can I depend upon your utmost cooperation to do as you have proposed?” Kamil asked him.
Dotensk simply nodded and said, “I will call you tonight …”
Harrod's Apartment
________________________________________
Washington, D.C.
Saturday, 18 February 1995
0145 Hours, Local
Harrod had just undressed and was brushing his teeth to go to bed when his phone rang. It was Komulakov again. He explained that he had just gotten back to New York and had some further word on their conversation.
“Let me call you back,” Harrod said. “Are you home or at your office?” After a momentary pause, Harrod scribbled the number on a pad on the nightstand and replaced the handset. He ambled into his office and attached his EncryptionLok-3 to the telephone in his office and called the number written on the piece of paper he carried from the bedroom. As soon as the call was ringing, Harrod shredded the piece of paper in his hand into a nearby wastebasket.
