At home he hurriedly stuffed a suitcase with clothes. He did not tell Tabitha and Rashid that he was going to work for Qusay Hussein; instead he told them that he was being transferred to an office in Ramadi for a few days, but he would be home for Friday. Nevertheless he could see the disquiet in their eyes, and they both hugged him and told him to take care. Ali told them not to worry, but as he closed the outer gate behind him he saw Kamal standing beside his car. His memory was triggered and he realised that Kamal Ahwadi was the man he had seen outside Hakim Mansour’s house. It was only with an enormous effort of will that he managed to walk normally towards him.
They drove an hour and twenty minutes out of Baghdad, turned off down a small un-signposted road and came to a high barbed wire fence with an elevated look-out post surmounted by a closed circuit television camera. Under the roof of the post he could see a guard armed with a large calibre automatic weapon inspecting their approaching vehicle through binoculars. Two more guards emerged from a small hut and walked up to the car and peered in the windows. One of them recognised Kamal, gave a respectful salute and hastened to open the security gate. They continued towards an enormous house surrounded by a lush garden with tall semi-tropical trees that could only have been created by years of expensive irrigation. Outside the front door another pair of armed guards was ready to open the car doors and admit Kamal and Ali into the building.
Ali’s impression of the house was of opulent marble and tropical hardwood floors with expensive carpets hanging on the walls, but his inspection was interrupted by Kamal. ‘Come with me please, I’ll show you where you’ll be working.’
‘Is this where Mr Hussein lives?’ Ali asked. Rumours had existed for years about an array of desert palaces built at vast expense for the Husseins’ personal use.
‘It’s somewhere he keeps mainly for guests and weekend entertaining,’ Kamal replied. ‘For now he’s using it as a private office. It’s just a small place.’ He waved his hand about as if to apologise for the limitations of the building.
Along a corridor he opened a teak door and lead Ali into a sitting room converted into a makeshift office. There were three large radio receivers and a microphone attached to an old fashioned but high quality reel to reel tape recorder. On one table stood a television with a VHS recorder on a shelf underneath. On another table was a stack of English language newspapers. ‘This is where you will be working. Now come next door.’ Kamal showed him a luxurious bedroom. ‘This is where you’ll be sleeping. Meals will be brought to you here or in the office.’
Ali looked around and saw a door in the side wall; he opened it and looked around at a bathroom furnished with expensive European plumbing. ‘How long will I be here?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know. Until the current situation has been resolved, I expect.’
‘And can you tell me what my duties will be?’ he asked.
‘Mr Hussein will tell you himself, no doubt. Come with me.’
They returned to the entrance hall where a man was standing staring out of a window with his hands clasped behind his back.
‘Good afternoon, sir.’ Kamal said. ‘I have Yusuf Ali Hamsin with me.’
The man turned round, a smile on his round moustachioed face. This face wore wrinkles and blemishes and a sagging chin that were not apparent on the official photographs but Ali immediately recognised the President’s son Qusay Hussein. He nervously cleared his throat.
‘Good day to you, Yusuf Hamsin,’ said Qusay Hussein, holding out his hand. ‘I am pleased to have you on my staff. Saman Abdul Majid has spoken highly of you.’
Ali shook the proffered hand and gave a little bow. ‘The approval of the President’s official translator is a blessing sir. I hope to serve you as well as he has served the President.’
‘I’m sure you will. Now what I want you to do here is listen to the news services of the Americans and the British and translate them for me. Also I’ll have newspapers brought in and you can translate the news items in those, but the radio is more important. You can record your translations. I won’t require written transcripts.’ Ali wondered why he should be doing the work that was usually carried out by the foreign ministry in Baghdad; but he decided not to question this man with his reputation for angry outbursts.
‘Very good sir. Shall I begin at once?’
‘Yes. Why not? Kamal will show you how to work the equipment. Have you any questions?’
Ali had many; how long will I be here? Who will be monitoring when I’m asleep? Where am I allowed to go inside the house? But he decided that Qusay Hussein was not a man accustomed to being questioned by a subordinate. ‘No Sir.’ Qusay Hussein nodded. Ali realised something more was expected of him. ‘It is an honour Sir, a privilege,’ he added. Qusay Hussein smiled.
‘I am sure you won’t let me down, Yusuf,’ he said, and walked towards the door.
‘Pardon me sir,’ said Ali greatly daring.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s just that I am known everywhere as Ali, rather than as Yusuf, sir. I thought I should say something…to avoid any confusion.’ He swallowed nervously. Qusay Hussein stared at him for a moment, but then smiled.
‘Very well then. I too shall call you Ali.’
After Kamal had described the equipment to him, Ali finally felt able to ask some questions. ‘How come I’m needed here? There’s a team of people in the ministry already doing this work.’
‘The boss has several places like this set up. If the invasion happens then he doesn’t want the Americans to know where he is, and this is one of several secret locations he might use. They know the location of the ministry in Baghdad; they don’t know about this building.’
‘Perhaps there won’t be an invasion. Blix reported to the United Nations that we don’t have any weapons of mass destruction and the Americans and British seem to have given up the hope that they’ll get a second United Nations resolution.’
‘You had better have a look at this recording from a few days ago.’ Kamal smiled at him, picking a VHS tape off a shelf. ‘It’s just been delivered. It might change your mind.’
Ali Hamsin sat down in front of the television screen and switched the VHS recorder on. The machine was old and the picture juddered a little but the soundtrack was clear enough.
‘We are really close to the end of the diplomatic steps we’re able to take,’ said the American Vice President Cheney to his television interviewer. ‘The President is meeting with European leaders once again. We’ve been trying to organize a second resolution in the U.N. Security Council, but plainly the President is going to have to make a difficult and important decision in the next few days.’
‘Mr Cheney, is there anything that Saddam Hussein could do to stop the war?’ asked the interviewer.
‘Well for twelve years, we’ve been trying to get him to give up his weapons and he’s rejected all our efforts, every time. There have been seventeen UN resolutions now. He’s always had the option of accepting inspections, of giving up all of his weapons of mass destruction, destroying the anthrax, the VX nerve agent and the sarin, and all the other capabilities he has developed, and he has refused every time.’
‘Now sir, the British have suggested that even now, if he gave us all the information, turned over all the VX, the mustard gas, the anthrax. If he were to appear on television and denounce the weapons of mass destruction, he could stay in power. Should he have that chance?’
‘Well, I think it’s difficult to believe in that happening. If he were to stay in power, we have to assume that as soon as we’re all looking the other way and dealing with other preoccupations, he’ll be back to stealthily building up his biological and chemical weapons arsenal, and he’ll try and set up his nuclear program again. He’s been trying to acquire nuclear weapons for more than twenty years. As soon as he’s revealed his current capability, even if it was complete, we can safely assume that as soon as our backs are turned he’ll start up in a fresh location and we’ll soon be back where
we started.’
‘So his only option is to leave the country and his regime will have to accept complete disarmament?’ the interviewer asked.
‘I think that would be the only solution we could accept, the only outcome possible,’ said the Vice President. ‘But we will continue to try and work through the United Nations and try to arrive at a diplomatic solution. However up until now, we’ve been unsuccessful.’
‘So what do you think is the most important justification for an invasion of Iraq?’ the interviewer asked.
‘It’s the threat to the region and even to the world beyond of his continued development and use of chemical weapons and of biological weapons, and his attempts to acquire nuclear weapons,’ said Mr Cheney.
‘Although the International Atomic Energy Agency declares that he does not have a viable nuclear program,’ the interviewer suggested.
‘Well we disagree with that conclusion. The CIA and other departments of the intelligence community disagree with that conclusion. Let’s consider his nuclear program. In the ’70s, Saddam Hussein acquired nuclear reactors from the French. In 1981, the Israelis destroyed the Osirak reactor and brought a halt to his nuclear weapons development. For the next ten years, he implemented a new program, and after the Gulf War it became apparent that he was within one or two years of having a nuclear weapon. Now he’s threatening…’
Ali’s concentration was broken by a commotion of two people shouting angrily at one another. He opened the door and peered out. The corridor was dark in the settling dusk, but in the brightly lit main hall he could see Qusay Hussein and another man who was gesticulating wildly and walking with a pronounced limp towards the front door, then wheeling round. With a little inward groan of dismay he recognised Uday Hussein, the President’s eldest son whose reputation for unpredictable violence had escaped the tightly controlled inner circle of Baghdad’s ruling class.
‘So where the hell have all these so-called weapons of mass destruction gone?’ Uday shouted, staring at his brother. ‘The bloody Americans are going to invade now!’
‘Well we don’t have any, but unless you can think of a way to turn them back at the border, they will soon launch an invasion.’ Qusay replied.
‘But that bastard Cheney’s going on TV describing a whole arsenal of weapons. Haven’t we got anything left? At least some of the stuff we used to gas the Kurds? We can use it on the damned Yanks as well when they invade. A few thousand of their soldiers coughing up their blood and guts on the border will soon have CNN and NBC calling a halt!’
Qusay’s reply was too quiet for Ali to hear as he ushered his brother out of sight. Ali closed the door, praying that Uday Hussein was not planning to take up residence in this bolt hole.
20th March 2003
Ali Hamsin dreamed he was lying in bed at home with his wife. It was clearly late in the morning and they had nothing to do that day besides enjoy spending time in each other’s company. Suddenly he was instantly awake with Kamal Awadhi shaking his shoulder.
‘Wake up Hamsin, come on wake up!’ he demanded.
‘What’s happening?’ Ali glanced at the clock. It showed it was 7.10am and he had been asleep for only about five hours, yet here was this ruffian rousing him.
‘Come on, it’s started!’
He could mean only one thing. Yesterday there had been a missile or bombing raid on the presidential palace in Baghdad. Ahwadi had scoffed at the possibility that Saddam Hussein or any of his staff might have been in residence. They rushed to the office and switched on the radios and television.
Foreign news reports stated that the Americans and their allies were streaming across the border and were already past Basra. The city was surrounded and there appeared to be little resistance to the invading army. An armoured column was moving north towards Baghdad and everywhere there were reports of air strikes and missile attacks.
In contrast, on Baghdad radio, Mohammed Saeed al-Sahhaf, the Information Minister broadcast in triumphant tone that the invasion force was being repelled at the border by the Iraqi army under the personal command of the President. The American soldiers were burning inside their tanks and twenty three attacking aircraft had been shot down around Baghdad alone. Ali looked at Kamal. ‘What do you think?’ he asked the security man.
‘You know they call him Comical Ali. He’s probably holed up somewhere and they are releasing pre-recorded announcements.’
‘Are we safe here?’
‘In this building? If the Americans knew about this place they would already have flattened it.’ He smiled and Ali thought that this was the first time he had seen him smile. ‘Why do you think I’m here eh? Anyway, I’m off now. Good luck Ali Hamsin. If I were you I would try to get to Baghdad and protect your family.’
‘What do you mean, you’re off? Where are you going then?’
‘I’m going to Damascus, God willing. I have relatives there.’
‘What about your family? Aren’t they in Baghdad?’
Kamal Ahwadi shook his head and smiled again. ‘Goodness no! I moved all my family out of Iraq two weeks ago. I regret to say I have less faith in our armed forces than Comical Ali Sahhaf.’ He paused, and stared at Ali. ‘What happened to the Gilgamesh plan? Why hasn’t it worked?’ Ali grabbed the armrests of his chair and swallowed hard.
‘The Gilgamesh plan? Whatever are you talking about?’
Kamal smiled at him. ‘I had a talk with Hakim Mansour…before he died. He told me about this plan called Gilgamesh…he had negotiated a deal with the Americans. Kamal shook his head. ‘It was strange, I don’t think Qusay meant any harm to come to Mansour, he just wanted him confined until the invasion was completed. But Mansour was terrified that he meant to have him killed. He even had a poison pill hidden in his wristwatch.’
Ali swallowed again, convinced that if Qusay Hussein had wanted someone killed then Kamal Ahwadi would be his chosen man. He managed to croak out. ‘And Mansour swallowed it when he was being questioned?’
‘No not at all,’ said Kamal, ‘he actually died of a heart attack, but before he died he also told me all the details of this Gilgamesh plan…and how you came to know about it too. That’s why I brought you here, in case your knowledge was useful...or dangerous.’
Ali shook his head, somehow no longer terrified by yet another threat to his life. ‘I have no idea what‘s gone wrong with Gilgamesh. Every day I expect an announcement and a ceasefire, but nothing seems to have happened. The Americans now seem determined to carry on until they’ve completely taken over the country.’
‘And then what will they do?’ Kamal asked
‘I have absolutely no idea. I presume they have a plan.’
13th April 2003
Ali Hamsin groaned and rubbed his aching back as he stood up from his chair and gazed out the window at the narrow strip of blue sky that was visible. He hitched up his trousers with what was becoming a habitual tug on the waistband. He had lost weight during the four weeks that had elapsed since the invasion of his country. There had been no shortage of food in the palatial house, but he had little interest in eating. He had made repeated requests to the officer in charge of the military contingent that policed the compound for permission to return to his home in Baghdad. Despite repeated promises that he would soon be allowed to leave, he remained a virtual prisoner.
On the morning that he had woken up to find that Kamal Ahwadi had disappeared from the compound, Ali had hoped to be able to get away as well. He suggested to the officer in charge that he too had orders to return to Baghdad, but as he had nothing in writing, permission to leave was refused.
He had been allowed to telephone his wife the day after the invasion. They had tried to reassure each other of their personal safety and well-being, but each had felt the tension in the other’s voice, and the almost certain knowledge that their conversation was being monitored inhibited him. He had sought permission to telephone the next day, but had been informed that the lines must remain clear in case Uday Hussein h
ad orders to pass on. The next day the senior officer had informed him that the telephone system was no longer working.
Ali continued to monitor the transmissions of the foreign news media, and he learnt how the Iraqi armed forces were being swept aside, how flags and statues of the President were being torn down in the towns closer and closer to Baghdad until finally five days ago the capital city was occupied by the American army. The Iraqi army had not launched any weapons of mass destruction against the invading force, and neither had the Americans found any. This seemed to be genuinely puzzling to the news reporters from the countries whose people had been deluded by stories of the threat that Saddam Hussein and his regime represented to them.
Now it was reported that the Americans were advancing towards Tikrit and they were expecting to take the city the following day. Ali reluctantly decided to tell the senior officer that his home town was under threat. He took off his headphones and walked along to the man’s office, but there was nobody in. Then he heard a shouting and a commotion outside. He hurried back to the main entrance hall and found that the front door was unguarded for the first time since his arrival. He hesitated for a moment and then turned the heavy latch and pulled it open.
Outside was a scene of muddle and disorder. The troops were clambering into the backs of three army trucks while the officers squeezed into the cabs. Automatic weapons lay discarded on the ground along with jackets displaying badges of rank. Ali caught sight of the senior officer who was walking over to his car dressed in a civilian jacket. ‘What’s going on?’ he shouted where’s everyone going?’
‘There you are Ali!’ the officer called back. ‘Look over there!’ He threw an arm out to the southern sky. Ali saw the six black shapes flying low over the desert and seconds later he heard the rhythm of the helicopter blades beating the air mixed with the roar of their engines.
The Gilgamesh Conspiracy Page 8