The Gilgamesh Conspiracy

by Jeffrey Fleming

  ‘Look, come back to my place. You can rest it for a while. Maybe we can bandage it up. Perhaps we should call a taxi and get you to the casualty department at the hospital.’

  She thought for a moment. ‘Is your place on the ground floor?’

  ‘No, first floor,’ he said.

  ‘Oh well. If you can help me up the stairs I’ll see if the pain gets worse or passes off after a while.’ She raised an arm. ‘Would you give me a hand?’ He stood next to her and put an arm around her waist, trying not to appear too eager to make the intimate contact. She put her arm across his shoulders and he led her through the door and up the stairs to the flat he shared with Omar, feeling relieved that they had cleaned and tidied the place up the previous afternoon.

  He took her over to the sofa and she slumped into it gratefully. Then she bent down, unzipped her boot and took it off along with her sock and she began to massage her ankle.

  ‘How does it feel now?’ he asked.

  ‘Damn painful, but it hasn’t swollen up yet. I don’t suppose you’ve got any bandages, have you?’

  ‘Well, yes. Omar’s got a first aid kit somewhere. Hold on.’ He walked off to the bathroom and found a rolled up bandage still in its wrapper and brought it to her. He watched her unwrap it and then roll it around her foot and ankle with a facility that suggested that she had some first aid training.

  ‘Can I get you anything else? A drink perhaps?’

  She paused and looked up at him. ‘What have you got?’

  ‘There’s some beer in the fridge, or we’ve got some single malt scotch if you like that,’ he suggested.

  ‘What are you having?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll have a scotch.’

  ‘Me too then, please. Straight; no ice.’

  He returned to the kitchen and poured out a couple of generous measures and carried them back to the sitting room. He passed her a glass and she smiled and took a sip.

  ‘That’s good stuff. Have you got some scissors, please? This bandage is rather too long. I’ll never get my boot on if I use all of it.’

  He returned to the kitchen and found some scissors. He sat down in the easy chair opposite her and watched her tape the bandage in place and then cut off the surplus. ‘That feels much better, thanks,’ she said, wiggling her foot about. I think I’ll be able to head home once I’ve drunk this.’ She settled back into the sofa, smiled at him and lifted her glass. ‘Cheers,’ she said and drank some more.

  ‘Cheers,’ he replied settled back comfortably and drank as well. He must have drank rather too deeply because his head swam a little. He was really not much of a drinker. It was Omar’s duty free scotch; he usually only drank beer, not spirits. He gazed over at her. She was looking at him with a slight frown on her face. He wondered what to say to restore the smile and while he was wondering, he passed out.

  Sandra got to her feet and leant over him. ‘Rashid…Rashid.’ She grasped his shoulder and shook it. Then she put her finger on his eyelid and pulled it up a little. She gave a small sigh, pulled her telephone from her pocket and used her speed dial. ‘It’s Gerry Tate. He’s ready. Yeah, send in the clowns.’

  She sat back down and looked around while she unwound the bandage from her ankle which she then crammed into a pocket. There was a computer in a corner of the room with a dual Arabic and English keyboard. She sat down in front of it and switched it on. She nodded in approval when she found that she could sign on as Guest. She opened Word in Arabic and typed a note.

  “Good morning, Omar. I have just heard my family are in Amman and I am flying over there to see them. I will return in two weeks, God willing.”

  She printed it out, then wiped down the keyboard and placed the message on top of it. The only other things she had touched were the glass and the scissors. She picked up the two glasses and threw the remainder of the whisky down the sink; cleaned and wiped the glasses and put them on the drainer. She heard a vehicle pull up outside and she went downstairs. There was a knock at the door and she opened it. Three men stood there. The man in front was evidently in charge. He was lean, slightly taller than Gerry, with long red hair tied into a pony tail.

  ‘Operation Clocktower?’ he declared with an interrogative lift and an American accent. A quick grin revealed prominent front teeth and a gold incisor. ‘Geraldine Tate?’

  ‘That’s me. You must be Neil Samms. He’s upstairs.’

  She led the way up to where Rashid lay slumped in his seat. Samms looked at the young Iraqi. ‘Is that him then?’ he asked.

  ‘No, that’s just some random passer-by,’ Gerry replied.

  ‘Ok, so you’re a real comedian,’ said Samms.

  ‘Well of course it’s him; Rashid Hamsin. Father is Ali Hamsin, half Jordanian, half Iraqi. He works as a translator in the foreign affairs department of the Iraqi government in Baghdad. Mother is Tabitha Hamsin; she’s from Amman in Jordan and her brother arranged Rashid’s Jordanian passport and visa to the UK. He’s here as an English student. Age twenty-one on May 2nd this year. Speaks English really well; nice guy.’

  Thank you Miss Tate. We’ll take it from here. If you’ve wiped down, you can go.’ It was meant to sound like an order rather than a suggestion and she nearly made some acerbic reply, but instead she just said ‘Ok.’ She was in enough trouble already with Richard Cornwall, her boss, over the shambles with Laurence Baxter and Lyudmila Yakutina. She recalled her meeting with him on her return from Kuwait.

  ‘Strange how the Russian woman could shoot Baxter after being mortally wounded by a bullet in the chest.’ Richard Cornwall had commented on receiving her report, ‘and then there’s the embassy’s complaint that you never handed back their Glock.’ He had stared at Gerry for a few seconds more and then added ‘but at least the Russians have a dead Brit to set off against their own victim, so maybe it’s not such a bad outcome. We’ll say no more about it, because here’s another task for you to carry out. It relates to the meeting in Frankfurt, but quite how it does, Sir Hugh has not bothered to tell me yet.’

  ‘Very well sir,’ Gerry had agreed, much relieved. She took the file and read through it aware of Cornwall appraising her. She suppressed a groan of irritation after completing it. ‘But shouldn’t MI5 be doing this?’ she had suggested, ‘after all it’s on their turf.’

  ‘But you’ve been involved in the operation already, and we need someone who speaks fluent Arabic,’ Cornwall had replied, ‘and also you can pass yourself off as an attractive woman if you make the effort.’

  ‘That’s a piece of patronising crap, if you don’t mind me saying so…sir.’

  ‘It might be patronising, even sexist if you like, but Sir Hugh thought that you should carry out this job rather than involve anyone new from MI5. After that fiasco in Kuwait we’ll see if you can carry out this task without upsetting anyone,’ he had said as she opened his office door, and then as his parting shot added ‘Or killing anyone!’ as she closed the door behind her.

  Now she took one last look around the flat and then ran down the stairs and began the long walk back to where her car was parked. When she passed a litter bin, she chucked away the small glass vial that had contained the drug that had sent Rashid Hamsin to sleep. She walked a little further and then heard the sound of a van door slamming shut. She stopped and gazed back down the road and for a few guilty moments she wondered what would become of the young Iraqi before she dismissed the matter from her mind.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  17th February 2003

  During the flight from England Rashid Hamsin had spent most of the time staring out of the Gulfstream cabin window, but now it was dark and as they flew across the Nefud, the desert that covered the northwest of Saudi Arabia. There was not much to look at besides the stars and the isolated lights that might be small towns, or oil industry bases or military installations. Instead the young man spent his time staring at the seat back in front of him and occasionally glancing at the map and reading through the list of instructions that he had been
given.

  One of the pilots came out of the flight deck and walked along the aisle. ‘Colonel White, Sir! We’re starting our descent. We’ll be landing in about twenty five minutes.’ The tall American nodded, stood up, stretched and walked to the rear of the cabin and sat next to Rashid. Colonel Jasper White was the first person Rashid had seen when he woke up from the drug and he had been with him ever since. Rashid had learned that he was formerly of the US Marines, but he retained his rank and his military bearing. Although he was now over fifty years old he looked ten years younger, fit and tough; a seasoned veteran with white hair and moustache that contrasted his tan and suited his name.

  ‘Well, young man, we’ll be on the ground soon,’ said White. We’ll have a break of about an hour before we set off on the next phase. Dean will be going with you.’

  Rashid glanced towards the taciturn American with the beard and long hair. Apart from introducing himself as Dean Furness and explaining that he would be his minder until the mission was complete he had barely exchanged a word with him. He had guided him from place to place and asked with perfect politeness if there was anything he needed; anything he could get him? Rashid had asked him once if he could release him, but Furness had merely raised his eyebrows and given his head a little shake. Rashid did not bother to ask him again.

  With his finger Rashid traced the line on the map from King Khaled Military City, or KKMC as it was commonly called, along the road through the town of Hafar Al Batin towards the Kuwaiti border. Before the border, the line diverged from the road along a track that ran through a wadi and then across the boundary into Iraq. A few miles on the other side was geographical reference point where Rashid Hamsin would be met by a senior official of the Iraqi government.

  Jasper White wondered why Bruckner had insisted that this young man be entrusted with the mission. Presumably he was related to the Hussein clique that effectively controlled the country with the help of a brutal secret police force. Probably this Hamsin guy had relatives; parents, grandparents, brothers and sisters who would be hostage to his continuing good behaviour. He wondered if the young man would be allowed to join his family as soon as he had delivered the package, or if he would be incarcerated until the whole affair was over. He also harboured a dreadful suspicion that he might be killed, but he hoped that so long as he did not know the contents of the package he would probably be safe.

  Twenty minutes later the Gulfstream landed at the remote desert military base that had been pivotal in operation Desert Storm on the occasion that the Iraqi army had been driven out of Kuwait in 1991. White waited impatiently as the pilot opened the door and extended the folding stairs. He hurried down and was greeted by the Saudi duty officer who was assigned to supervise the airbase during the night and the US Marine Major named Hansen who had come to meet him. They chatted idly for a while about the preparations on the base for the invasion of Iraq while the freight was unloaded. When the Saudi officer had driven away, White climbed back up to the aircraft cabin and brought Rashid Hamsin and Dean Furness down the stairs. ‘This is Lieutenant Harris,’ he announced. ‘He’s the young British officer who is going to cross the border into Iraq with you this evening. Lieutenant Harris - Major Hansen.’ Hansen held out his hand to Rashid.

  ‘Glad to have you aboard Lieutenant.’ He made no comment regarding the absence of badges of rank, sidearm or the young man’s lack of military bearing.

  ‘And this is Dean Furness, Major. He’ll be going out and back with you and he’ll be on hand if there are any er…unexpected outcomes. He’s one of my top guys; you can trust him with your life.’

  Major Hansen stared with some disapproval at the scruffy-looking man before shaking his hand.

  ‘Now remember. You go to the rendezvous point and wait no longer than one hour. If there is nobody there to meet you, you come home again. Are your ready to get going, Major?’

  ‘Yes Colonel. We should depart in thirty minutes. We have thirty minutes in hand and if necessary we will lose that in the wadi before we cross the border.’

  ‘Very good. Well, where can we wait until then?’

  ‘Perhaps you should just wait on board the airplane, sir. I’ll drive back up in thirty minutes from now.’

  At 23:00 local time, two armoured Humvees drove up beside the Gulfstream, and under Furness’s instruction Rashid settled himself into the cabin at the back of the first vehicle, its roof festooned with antennae. The second one carried a heavy calibre gun mounted on the back. Jasper White handed a heavy leather document case to Rashid. ‘Now, you’re sure you’ll recognise Hakim Mansour?’

  Rashid remembered a friendly man, rather overweight with a twinkling eye and a ready laugh that his father treated with reserved courtesy on the occasions that he visited their house. ‘Of course; my father has worked for him ever since I can remember.’

  ‘Good. These seals must be intact when you hand this briefcase over; otherwise Mansour might have you shot.’ He paused. ‘You know I’m serious about that?’

  Rashid swallowed, remembering the flashes of anger that he had witnessed Mansour direct at his personal secretary and chauffeur and their fearful expressions. ‘I understand.’

  ‘Now Major Hansen and his men won’t be having any conversation with you about where you’re going and what you’re doing apart from the absolute minimum. It’s not that they’re unfriendly, or anything; it’s just their orders.’

  Rashid nodded glumly. The American smiled at him from under his white moustache. ‘Cheer up. If all goes to plan, you will be doing your country a great service. I can’t explain to you exactly how, but you can count on that. And Furness is a good man; he’ll see you get there safely.’

  They drove for about two hours on a tarmac road before the Humvees drew to a stop. He heard Major Hansen mutter something to the driver about checking the GPS before the vehicle lurched off the road and rumbled across a desert track. Hansen turned round to look at him and Rashid recoiled in some alarm, taken aback by the night vision equipment that he was now wearing. He realised then that the vehicle had no lights switched on.

  Rashid bounced around uncomfortably on the rear seat. Dean Furness sitting next to him appeared to have fallen asleep despite the harsh ride. He thought about his parents and family, wondering if they were safe. He wished that he was back in his flat in Southampton, or in the relative safety of his parents’ home in Baghdad rather than lurching around in an American military vehicle on some clandestine mission about which he had been told very little by the white-haired American colonel.

  He checked the seals on the briefcase. They looked strong. Short lengths of multi-stranded twisted wire with the loose ends encased in a hard resinous material with a palm tree embossed. Much to his relief, he doubted that they would break accidentally. He thought about Omar and his other friends back at the university. He thought about Sandra who just two days ago had drugged his whisky when he was fetching the first aid kit for her. No doubt she was some British agent. He had honestly thought that she had liked him, but that was probably her acting skills and his male ego. ‘Bitch,’ he muttered to himself.

  The Humvee drew to a stop. Major Hansen took off his night vision goggles, jumped out of the passenger door and Rashid heard his boots crunching on the stony desert surface as he walked round the vehicle. With a metallic clunk, the handle swung and the passenger door opened. ‘You can jump out and stretch if you like,’ said the Major. ‘Walk about for a bit. There’re some sandwiches and drinks in the other Hummer, some coffee too. We’ll be here for twenty minutes before we go off across the border.’

  Rashid climbed out of the vehicle and stared up at the night sky, crowded with stars despite the bright full moon. They were in a typical wadi with low rising hills to either side of a central sandy strip where desert shrubs eked out a parched existence while waiting for the next storm that might rain on the hills and stream water into the valley, maybe this winter, maybe not for ten years. He caught sight of one of the drivers relieving him
self a little way from the vehicles. He realised he needed to do the same and he began to walk off in the opposite direction. A light flashed briefly on to him and then off again.

  ‘Don’t go too far now,’ he heard someone call out in Arabic. He realised it was Furness.

  After he had finished, he returned to the Humvees. Taking his orders seriously, the driver merely pointed at the food and drink that was now laid out on the passenger seat. Rashid picked up a diet coke and inspected a roll stuffed with cold meat and salad to check that it did not contain ham and then bit into it hungrily. The other four men, the two drivers and the major sat down on some rocks and chatted to one another, glancing at him from time to time. Rashid sat back in the Humvee so that he did not inhibit their conversation with his presence, but he did strain to hear what they were discussing. It turned out to be the American football season and their families back in the States. They did not discuss the current troop deployments or the possibilities of war.

  A shooting star flashing across the sky caught the attention of all five men, and as if it were some kind of signal, Major Hansen checked his watch and ordered the small patrol to swing into action again.

  They bumped slowly along the dried up watercourse and then emerged into an area of open desert. Rashid heard the Americans discussing GPS position and Hansen directed the driver where to go. After another hour they stopped. ‘Well we’re here. Seven minutes ahead of schedule,’ announced the major. He said nothing else. There was a whining and metallic clattering from the other Humvee that was parked about twenty metres away and Rashid looked across at it. He saw the heavy machine gun mounted on its roof traverse back and forth, tilt up to the night sky and then back down as the weapons operator tested his night vision control system. The atmosphere in the vehicle was tense.