“Of course I’ll tell him, General.”
Western suburbs, Baghdad
Sunday, March 10, 1991—5:30 P.M. (1430 GMT)
Doug sat bolt upright in the pitch darkness of the cell, his heart racing wildly, the sound of heavy footsteps in an outside corridor rising in volume, and headed his way.
Unseen prisoners on both sides of his cell had been pulled screaming into that corridor in the past few hours and taken some distance away to be beaten, the muffled sounds of heavy blows and cries of pain unmistakable. One had been thrown back in later, moaning and crying. The other had never returned.
None of the voices belonged to Will. So far. He was sure of that and thankful for it. But whoever the Iraqis were beating, they spoke English. He had heard their cries for help and their screams as doors had opened and closed.
The guards were getting closer, the reverberation of their heavy boots striding resolutely right toward his door.
Doug had been in pitch blackness for many hours, and no one had even touched the door, as if he had been walled off and forgotten. He was exhausted, but unable to sleep with footsteps marching back and forth constantly.
At least three guards had gathered outside his door now. Doug could hear their guttural voices speaking in Arabic, and he could hear something hard slapping against the wall with rhythmic malevolence.
An unseen hand gripped whatever doorknob there was and rattled it, the sounds of jingling keys giving way then to the scraping of a key in a lock—his lock—his door!
Instinctively he found himself edging toward the back wall, trying to remember all the things the Air Force survival school had taught him about interrogations, and how to survive. He had no information they really needed—except for one particular name.
A blaze of white light flooded the room at the same instant the door was banged open, and Doug shut his eyes and folded his hands over them to block the painful glare.
The owner of the heavy boots pushed roughly into the room but stopped suddenly, responding to a distant voice down the corridor, which was yelling something in Arabic.
The guard backed out of the door then, his voice low and menacing as he mouthed a few words in English.
“First your friend. Then you.”
The door slammed with unbelievable force and the lights went out again, the footsteps clumping down the corridor a short distance where another door was yanked open. Doug could hear an order given in English to get up, and a surprised, belligerent reply. Whoever they were yelling at was protesting, but the voice was covered by the angry shouting of the guards, and then silenced by the sound of a body being slammed into the wall and dragged off in the distance.
There was silence for a few minutes before a new vibration crept into the room, moving without warning like an assassin, very distant at first, and then more plaintive—the high-pitched wail of someone screaming in terrible pain.
Doug’s heart began to race again. He had heard nothing like that earlier. There had been people beaten, true, but no more.
The wailing ceased then, and tense silence surrounded him. Minutes passed, then a half hour, before the sound of a door somewhere being thrown open shocked him upright again.
This time someone was moaning incoherently in the distance, the sound clearly audible through an open door.
The sound of a small gasoline engine began sputtering nearby as well, growing into a warbling noise that could only be the sound of a chain saw. The sputtering accelerated, and a long, sustained, unearthly shriek echoed through the building and lingered.
Exactly how much time passed after the sounds stopped he didn’t know, but suddenly the light in his cell snapped on with full intensity and the door crashed open. He had not heard a key.
“On your feet, pig!” Someone snarled the words in perfect English, and Doug tried to open his eyes and get to his feet shakily, gathering his courage as best he could and squaring his shoulders as he tried to make his voice work. “I … demand to know what you have done with Colonel Westerman.”
The Iraqi was smiling. That was exactly the question he had expected, and he shrugged in response. “He wouldn’t answer our questions.”
“What have you done with him? You’re bound by the Geneva Convention! You cannot physically mistreat us!”
The man turned toward the door and motioned to someone outside, who came in lugging a large plastic tub. The guard carried it across the room then and held it high in front of him, lowering it slowly until he couldn’t avoid looking at the contents.
“You asked about your friend?”
Doug’s knees turned to rubber as he staggered back against the wall.
“You … you goddamned animals … you …”
The man’s smile broadened. “We have some questions, Colonel. In about an hour you will have one single chance to answer them.”
The commander known as Akhmed closed the door to the American’s makeshift cell and locked it noisily. He and his team of guards moved down the corridor then and reentered their small office, locking the door carefully behind them as Akhmed checked the time.
Central Baghdad
Sunday, March 10, 1991—6:30 P.M. (1530 GMT)
The physician Shakir had asked to see was before him now, deep lines creasing his tired face, his hair askew, his hands shaking slightly as he stuffed them in the pockets of a dirty white smock, almost knocking his stethoscope on the cracked linoleum floor.
The hospital was filthy. There had been no direct bomb damage, but power and water had been intermittent for weeks and the staff was traumatized by lack of supplies but no lack of patients. Now they were seeing dysentery, and feared cholera. The entire population of Baghdad, it seemed, was using the filthy waters of the Tigris River.
“What is your name?” he asked in Arabic.
“Damerji. Dr. Muayad Damerji.”
“And you need to use what?”
“A kiln or oven. I need to sterilize some military equipment.”
The physician just stared at him until Shakir wondered if he’d fallen asleep with his eyes open.
Finally he spoke. “That is not possible. All we have is an autoclave, and it is in constant use, and then only when we have power.”
“I have authorization from—”
“I don’t care if the Prophet himself sent you!” he yelled. “You damned military people think you can hijack everything! It is impossible!” The physician turned away abruptly and disappeared around a corner, ignoring Shakir’s final attempt to communicate.
An overweight nurse with a surly disposition smirked knowingly and nodded an I-told-you-so at Shakir as she, too, turned back to more pressing matters. The military no longer impressed them.
Shakir left the building then, and returned to the dirty green van. The drive back from Kirkuk had beaten the machine into a filthy rattletrap. Three times he had been forced to drive off into the desert to navigate around roadblocks.
He had stopped in Samarra to thank the real Muayad and warn him that he was to know nothing of Shakir’s actions, or the use of his name. Shakir begged him to gather his family and flee for the nearest border.
“I cannot do that, my friend. We’ll be all right here, but Allah be with you and Saliah, wherever you go.”
So he had driven on to Baghdad alone.
Shakir stood on the concrete curb by the van and looked around him. The day was pleasantly warm, with a slight breeze bringing the fragrance of flowers and trees, which unfortunately mixed with the noxious aromas of uncollected garbage and raw sewage from a city whose infrastructure no longer worked.
Baghdad had taken one hell of a beating. Muayad had been right.
Shakir opened the back doors of the van and checked the spare-tire compartment to assure himself the canister was where he had left it. The hospital had been his last chance. He had no idea what to do now, other than keep carrying the tiny biological bomb until he could find something capable of destroying its contents by heat. Muayad had suggested
an open fire, but it might not reach a high enough temperature. No, better to keep carrying it until he could be sure.
He checked his watch again, which read a quarter to seven. The general had told him to wait until after midnight.
Shakir climbed back in the driver’s seat and fired the engine, rumbling back into the streets in search of a gas station—only to find he needed an authorization slip he didn’t possess. The harassed attendant pointed him in the direction of a police substation where he found a long line of irritable citizens waiting for the same thing. The temptation to yell Hashamadi’s name and bypass them all was great, but the last thing he needed was undue attention.
When his turn came at last, one glance at the official orders he carried was enough for the policeman behind the desk. Then it took another hour of waiting in line to fill the tank.
By then it was dark and he felt safer and more anonymous.
At nine he parked the van near a small restaurant a half-mile from the Al Rashid Hotel, carefully taking the distributor cap off the engine to prevent theft. He went in quietly to eat, sitting in a far corner. Since there was no electricity, he wondered how the restaurant was managing to stay open, but he knew good Arab merchants were born knowing how to stay in business, and restaurateurs would always find a way to serve something—even by candlelight.
He had run the plan in his mind a hundred times as the day progressed. He would gather the two soldiers he needed, then drive to the western edge of the city, to the nondescript building that had been pressed into service as a military holding tank for POWs, and try to remember the lines he had memorized to say to the guards when he walked into their lair.
During the fruitless search for a kiln, he had driven by the building several times, memorizing the approaches and escape routes.
Thoughts of home and Saliah slipped in, and Shakir found himself fighting an overpowering longing for his family. He ached to drive the thirty miles southeast to be with them, but until this obligation was played out one way or another, he could not.
Shakir finished his coffee and paid the bill quietly, reentering the quiet streets to find the van untouched. He had spent too much time thinking, and the enormity of what he was about to attempt had begun to scare him profoundly. These were not amateurs he was about to fool around with, and if they were already waiting for him …
But there was no way they could know! General Hashamadi would not have led him into an elaborate trap. If the general had been insincere, he could simply have killed him then and there in Kirkuk.
Or were there more complex plots of which Shakir was dangerously unaware?
He took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment, trying to shake the jitters and wondering how he could be anything but numb after all he’d experienced.
The next step, after all, would require nerves of steel.
The sound of a jet engine at treetop level suddenly assaulted his ears as someone flew over at near supersonic speed. The Americans, probably. They continued to harass the city with flyovers, just to demonstrate they owned the sky. It was a startling sound, triggering even more adrenaline in Shakir’s bloodstream as the unseen intruder roared on to the west and out of sight.
There were no tracers in the sky now. The antiaircraft batteries had probably grown numb too, as well as disinterested, especially since they had proven all but worthless during the six weeks of aerial bombardment.
The drive to the army staging outpost on the northwest edge of town was filled with conflicting thoughts and fears, but when Shakir walked in the door and approached the outer guards, he was calm and steady.
One by one they looked at his authorization from Hashamadi and ushered him farther and farther into the barracks. The three clips for his gun were provided without question, as were the two soldiers, both of them buck privates carrying guns and a noncommittal attitude. The three of them had left the building headed for the van, and Shakir had almost relaxed when the sound of footsteps running after them and a voice calling—yelling, actually—sent little shivers of impending doom up and down his spine.
Shakir turned as one of the younger officers came racing up, his expression invisible in the single light of the parking area.
“What’s the matter?” Shakir managed, trying to keep an even demeanor.
“You are Dr. Damerji?” he asked.
Shakir tried to fathom what was behind those dark eyes, but couldn’t.
“Yes,” he replied, feigning as much disinterest as possible.
The officer—a lieutenant—took Shakir’s hand and began pumping it.
“I did not recognize you, Doctor. You look different.” He was smiling, and Shakir tried to do the same.
“Where have we met? You must forgive me, I don’t have my glasses and probably wouldn’t recognize my own son.”
“You don’t remember? I’m devastated!” the young man said.
“No games, now. I can’t really see your face clearly out here, but your voice sounds like …”
“Ali Mahmadi!”
“Of course!” Shakir replied.
“My father asked you to help with my appointment to the army, and I owe this rank to you! You do remember?”
“Yes, yes, I do!” Shakir’s mind raced ahead, improvising as he went. “I’m delighted to … get to say hello … even though it’s in an unexpected time and place and I’m in a rush on a special assignment I can’t discuss.”
“I understand, Doctor. I know this is for General Hashamadi.” Shakir saw the young man wink conspiratorially, and nodded in return, at the same time catching sight of a flurry of activity to his left. Headlights from several vehicles were approaching rapidly, and the need to break away and run was rising like an uncontrollable reflex.
Shakir forced it back, however, and willed himself to be cordial.
“Were you in the fighting, Ali?”
The face of the young man grew serious now. He had struck a nerve, which was not surprising.
“I was there … but … we were ordered out before …”
“That’s all right.” Shakir put a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll talk about it some other time. Perhaps, when all this military activity has calmed, we can get together.” The urge to say “How’s your father?” or “Where is your father?” slammed into a wall of caution. Suppose the boy’s father was dead, or worse, and Shakir should know?
Or Muayad, he corrected himself, should know.
The headlights were turning into the parking area now and illuminating Shakir, young Lieutenant Mahmadi, and the two privates who had been leaning against the van.
“I appreciate to the depths of my heart your condolences, Doctor, on the death of my father. I know you were with him, and I want to ask you questions, but I know we must wait.”
Two small army vehicles roared past on their left now, followed by a nondescript gray sedan. Shakir noticed the two privates suddenly come to attention before he glanced to his left to see why. The lieutenant had also snapped to attention, his face a combination of surprise, fear, and excitement.
“Allah be praised!” the young man whispered.
The sedan stopped almost beside them, and a guard from the lead vehicle scurried back carrying an impressive automatic weapon and opened the rear door, saluting the occupant as he climbed out.
Shakir looked disbelievingly at his face as the man straightened his uniform and smiled.
This is not happening!
He would play along as if it were, of course.
Of all the people on the planet I did not want to meet in person ever again and especially tonight …
Saddam Hussein walked slowly the few feet separating Shakir and the lieutenant and returned the young officer’s salute before shaking his hand.
Lieutenant Mahmadi couldn’t restrain himself.
“Mr. President,” he gushed, “may I have the honor of presenting one of your most loyal and accomplished scientists, Dr. Muayad Damerji, whom I’m sure you know very well.”
/> He will recognize me! He will know this is a fraud! I am dead!
The thoughts were a jumble and his knees were turning to jelly, but somehow he managed to smile and extend his hand, the look of sheer terror passing for the sort of excitement Saddam was used to seeing in the eyes of his intimidated countrymen. It was the look and the attitude he had wanted to see.
“We are fortunate to have this opportunity, Doctor,” Saddam said in his low, gravelly tones. “Do you wish to see me about the progress of our bomb?”
“Not …” Shakir’s voice was a hoarse croak and he cleared his throat. “Excuse me … no sir, not tonight, if you don’t mind. I will have a formal presentation for you in two days.”
“You were to see me in four days. All of you in the program. Is something wrong?”
Shakir shook his head. “No sir. That meeting will go on as planned. I would like a few minutes of your time a bit earlier.”
Saddam nodded, his interest waning, and began to turn away. But something stopped him, and he turned back to Shakir, his eyes almost looking through him.
Shakir had met the dictator on many occasions and was always nervous in his presence. The knowledge that he could just as easily pull his gun and blow your head off as talk to you was unnerving.
Saddam was staring at Shakir now, studying his face very carefully, the implications in Shakir’s mind approaching the apocalyptic as the dictator cocked his head slightly and stared.
Finally he shrugged and placed a beefy hand on Shakir’s shoulder.
“You look very tired, Doctor. We are all tired. But tomorrow morning we will gain the upper hand. Wait and see.”
And then he was gone, sweeping into the building with his guards.
“What great good fortune, Doctor!” Lieutenant Mahmadi said, elated. “I was so fortunate to catch you.”
Wrong word, Ali. Wrong word, Shakir thought.
“I am very glad as well, Ali,” Shakir lied, “but I must go. We’ll talk soon.”
The lieutenant waved good-bye and hurried inside as Shakir motioned to the two soldiers to relax and get in the van. He started the engine and forced himself to motor out of the drive at a reasonable speed, though the inclination was to floorboard it. The two privates were still wide-eyed. Whatever reservations they might have had about this odd civilian with a secret mission were gone.
Scorpion Strike Page 30
