‘Come with us if you like!’ the officer called out. Ali looked across the compound and saw a group of a dozen domestic staff huddled together. They ran up to the nearest truck and were told that there was no space; get in one of the others. They looked around uncertainly and the three trucks started moving towards the main gate.
‘I’m staying here,’ one of them shouted and ran past Ali back into the house. The senior officer shrugged his shoulders and then called out ‘Quick Ali, get in my car!’ Ali looked at the rapidly approaching helicopters and decided to follow the other staff inside. Somebody slammed the heavy door shut and bolted it.
‘Let’s watch from upstairs!’ someone shouted. They all hurried up the marble staircase and into the bedrooms. Three Apache attack helicopters flew up to the army trucks, dipping their noses down threateningly as they came to a hover. Even above the roar of the engines they could hear a loud hailer ordering all personnel to come out and lie down on the ground with their hands above their heads. The trucks braked to a halt throwing up clouds of dust. The troops began to spill out of the back, but then from the back of one of the trucks someone started to fire a heavy calibre machine gun at the helicopters. The response came a second later; a puff of smoke from the weapons hard point; a streak of fire and a moment later the truck disappeared in a ball of flame and smoke that glowed with red flashes that flickered and died. As the smoke cleared Ali could see the troops from the other two trucks flinging themselves out and on to the ground.
Then three larger helicopters landed and American troops disembarked with disciplined precision and surrounded the Iraqi survivors. Next, two of the heavily armed Apaches slowly approached the building. Once again the loudhailer ordered everyone to come out.
‘What shall we do? They don’t know we’re in here,’ someone called out.
‘If we don’t come out then maybe the Americans will come in and they might think we’re trying to ambush them,’ said Ali. They all looked at him.
‘So we should probably go outside,’ someone cried. They all looked out of the windows. Some of the Americans were advancing slowly towards the house, weapons at the ready.
‘Let’s get out now while we have the chance!’ another one insisted.
‘They’ll probably shoot you as you come out,’ replied another. ‘You saw the way they blew up that truck. Look at the bodies scattered around it. I’m staying inside!’
‘So am I.’
‘If we don’t surrender before they get much closer, we might not get the chance! I’m going.’
‘Me too!
Five of them rushed to the door and ran madly down the stairs and Ali decided to follow them.
‘Quick! Open the door.’
‘Remember to keep your hands up!’
‘Go on, one at a time.’
They filed out of the door and lay face down on the ground, stretching their arms out above their heads as they had seen the soldiers do. Ali felt a small stone dig painfully into his knee, but he did not dare shift his position.
‘Is that everyone?’ an unseen voice asked in American accented English. ‘Any of you people speak English?’ Ali kept quiet.
‘I don’t know, Major’, said another American voice. ‘No one’s come out for a minute. I can’t see our main target anywhere. Maybe we should blow it now; not take the chance.’
‘Damn. I have orders to search, but it could be booby trapped. Oh hell, I think I’ll call for the choppers to take it down.’
Ali realised that the American commander was going to call for the building to be destroyed with some of his countrymen still inside. He struggled with the dilemma of possibly helping the enemy as against protecting his countrymen, but then he was not a soldier and neither were they.
‘There are only civilians inside; five or six men,’ he called out in English.
‘Which one of you said that?’ the American officer demanded.
Ali waved his hand slowly from side to side.
‘Ok, stand up!’
He heard the metallic rattle of an automatic rifle being cocked, but Ali slowly got to his feet. Through the open gate he could see the Iraqi soldiers now seated on the ground with their hands on their heads; American soldiers stood with their weapons pointing towards them. The helicopters had landed further back with their rotors slowly turning. A soldier approached from the rear and patted him down. ‘He’s clean major,’ he reported.
‘What’s your name?’ The officer asked.
‘Ali Hamsin.’
‘I’m Major Brogan. Now Ali Hamsin, you’re telling me there’s only a few people left inside. Can you tell them to come out?’
‘They’re frightened; what assurance can you give of their safety?’ Ali asked. Major Brogan stared at him for a moment.
‘Put it this way. If they come out now, then they’ll be kept safe. In one minute we’ll be going in and anyone still inside will be killed.’ Ali hastily shouted through the open door, and after a few seconds the remaining staff came rushing out. Ali watched the Americans surround the house and then at a signal they broke windows and flung stun grenades into the rooms and charged inside. He heard shouting; the banging of doors and a crash as furniture was overturned, but no gun fire. Major Brogan beckoned him over.
‘We had information that this was one of Qusay Hussein’s hideouts, but I guess we’ve missed him again. When was he last here?’
‘He hasn’t been…I’ve never seen him here at all,’ Ali declared.
‘Yeah, right!’ said Major Brogan. ‘That’s what they all say. Seems to me he and his brother Uday were total psychos, but still you people try to protect them.’ He gazed at Ali, head on one side. ‘You’re not one of the guys who worked for him are you?’ Ali wondered how to answer this but Major Brogan saved him the trouble. ‘Anyway, we’re gonna look you up in the database and see what it says.’
The Americans rounded them up and marched them a few hundred metres away from the house. They watched one of the Apache helicopters lift off and fly towards the building. It fired a salvo of missiles; smoke and flames billowed out of the windows and then the house collapsed into a heap of rubble under a pall of smoke. The Americans ordered them to sit down, but they no longer had to hold their hands on top of their heads. After a while they began to mutter to each other about what might become of them. Ali expected the Americans to bark out orders to shut them up, but they did not seem to mind them talking to each other.
After an hour two large trucks drew up, and more soldiers climbed out. To Ali’s astonishment, the first thing they did was to issue a bottle of water and a vacuum pack of pitta bread to each man. Then they ordered them to climb into the backs of the trucks and the small convoy set off along the road to Baghdad and eventually pulled to a halt beside the old prison.
Ali stared at the irregular patchwork of paint on the walls of his cell. He assumed that it covered up graffiti that previous occupants had scratched to record their days of imprisonment or invective written against the brutal regime that had locked them up. He wondered if these prisoners had been executed, or died in prison or even eventually released. He thought perhaps he should begin a record of his own confinement. So far he had suffered periodic bouts of fear that his work in the Government and his recent association with Qusay Hussein would be uncovered, and this was overlain by a continuing worry about his family and their possible fate. Before the fall of Baghdad he had been comforted by the foreign news reports that described how Government buildings and other strategic targets had come under pinpoint attack by the Americans satellite-guided missiles, but residential districts had been spared, but it had been weeks since he had seen his wife and son. He had been given regular food, drink and exercise since his arrival; he had got use to the smell of stale urine and disinfectant. Beside anxiety, his other big problem was boredom.
The man with whom Ali had shared his cell for the last week, Jamal Gharib, was asleep and snoring heavily; Ali felt sorry for his wife. Gharib claimed to have been a senior m
ember of the Baath party in Tikrit and he had bored him with stories of how he had met Saddam Hussein on any number of occasions, and what a magnificent leader he had been. Ali had been forced to listen to his endless speculations as to where the President had disappeared and how soon he was likely to emerge from hiding to lead the resistance against the invading army.
His train of thought was interrupted by footsteps marching along the corridor; at least three people, he decided. He could tell that one of them was the gaoler, having grown familiar with the rhythmical clinking of the keys attached to his belt as he stalked the corridor outside the cells.
It was with a mixture of apprehension and interest that he realised that they had stopped outside his cell. The clinking of keys was replaced by the rattling clunk as the door locks were released and the big sergeant who held the keys walked in followed by two infantrymen and a scruffy civilian with a beard.
‘You’re Ali Hamsin,’ the man declared.
‘Yes I am,’ Ali replied. ‘You’re Dean Furness.’
‘So you remember me from Frankfurt,’ he said in Arabic. ‘We have some questions for you. Ok, bring him along,’ he ordered the two infantrymen. Ali was seized firmly but not harshly. Jamal Gharib woke up with a start, cried in alarm and held his hands over his face.
‘Shall we cuff him Mr Furness?’ one of them asked. Without waiting for the reply Ali quickly held his wrists together in front of his waist ready for handcuffs. Through observation rather than personal experience he had already learnt that if you tripped and fell, or if you were pushed over with your hands manacled behind your back then you would hit the ground face first.
‘No need,’ said Furness, ‘me and Mr Hamsin are old acquaintances.’ Ali followed Furness out of the cell, casting a quick farewell glance at his cellmate.
CHAPTER SEVEN
14th April 2003
Captain Dan Hall of the US Marine Corps was eight months into a year’s posting in Muscat. The main purpose of his assignment had been to refine his knowledge of desert warfare techniques with the subsequent aim of passing on what he had learned upon his return to Quantico as an instructor. When the invasion of Iraq had been planned he had requested permission to re-join his unit in Kuwait and take part, but to his intense frustration the approval he had been seeking had not been forthcoming and with the news that Tikrit had fallen yesterday it appeared that the campaign would soon be over. Now he faced the prospect of instructing in the subject of desert warfare in which he had possessed a theoretical knowledge to marines who had acquired practical experience. He thought that this would lack credibility and he was no longer looking forward to it. He also knew that as an aspiring officer if he missed a chance of active service it would look poor on his record, despite the fact that it was totally unfair, and his appreciation of his time in Oman was much diminished.
This Monday he was enjoying a game of squash against Richard Davies, Head of Chancery at the UK embassy. Davies was a small, spare man fifteen years older than Dan, who was demonstrating a high level of fitness and speed around the court. The Englishman had been playing squash since he was thirteen years old but Dan had only started the game six months ago, so he did not mind losing. At the end of their forty-five minute session Dan had lost three games, albeit by increasingly smaller margins. They had been forced to abandon the fourth game at seven-all by the arrival of the next players who had booked the court.
While chatting at the bar over their pre-lunch drinks, Davies lost Hall’s attention when the younger man noticed a tall woman wearing black pants and a green sleeveless top. She wore her long dark hair in a ponytail and a determined expression on her attractive face. He also noticed that she was not suntanned which suggested that she had recently arrived from the UK and he also saw that her arms and shoulders were tautly muscled. Her age was hard to guess, but he decided she was about thirty, the same age as he was. She walked up to the bar behind Davies and asked for a glass of white wine and soda in the clear, decisive tone of someone used to giving instructions. At the sound of her voice Davies glanced round and then turned back to Hall to whom he gave a conspiratorial smile.
‘I was just asking if you thought the Hussein brethren had fled the country or if they were holed up somewhere,’ said Davies.
‘Er…sorry Richard. Yeah, I think they’re probably still there. I don’t think they trusted anyone outside Iraq enough to provide them with a bolthole. I would guess that they’ve gone to ground somewhere in Tikrit, Saddam’s home town. I still hope I’ll be able to get up there soon.’
‘Excuse me are you a journalist too?’ The woman had turned round and was peering over Davies’s shoulder at him. ‘I’m hoping to get permission to go to Baghdad, but I haven’t got any closer than Muscat so far. It’s bloody difficult to get a flight or a hotel room any closer to Iraq at the moment.’
Despite her undoubted physical attractiveness, her forthright attitude and the manner in which she butted into their conversation irritated Hall. ‘No I’m not a journalist,’ he retorted and was preparing to ignore the woman but Davies stood up off his bar stool and turned to include her.
‘Hello I’m Richard Davies; I’m in the embassy, and this is Dan Hall, US Marines,’ he said holding out his hand. She shook it and then held hers out to Dan. She stood the same height as him in her high heeled shoes.
‘Emily Stevens, freelance journalist,’ she said with a smile that lit up her face. ‘Pleased to meet you. So Dan, you think Saddam’s still in Iraq. D’you think they’ll be able to find him soon?’ she asked.
They talked for half an hour and Dan was reluctantly impressed by her depth of knowledge of the war and the political situation in the Middle East and her general politeness. He admitted to himself that he was prejudiced against journalists, and his disdain had been aroused by her comment about the lack of comfortable hotel rooms. Richard suggested that they all have lunch together but as they were reviewing the menus, he found a message on his cell phone. ‘Damn! Something’s come up. I’ll have to go in to the office,’ he declared.
‘Oh, can’t it wait until you’ve had lunch!’ Emily asked.
‘Sorry, duty calls. Nice to have met you Emily. Dan, see you next week, unless you get your marching orders.’
Dan watched him walk off and then smiled at Emily. ‘Have you decided what you’re gonna get?’
‘Sorry, I haven’t really looked at the menu yet. Are you expecting to go to Iraq then?’
‘Well I hope so, but for now Uncle Sam thinks I’m needed here.’ He noticed for the first time that a scar ran down the side of her neck and disappeared under her collar. He stared at it wondering what could have caused such a wound. He unconsciously fingered a scar of his own that ran up the side of his jaw to his right ear from which the lobe was missing. When she looked up from her menu he looked into her eyes instead which were dark brown and rather lovely he decided.
‘I’ll have a Caprese salad with prawns. What are you going to have?’ she asked. He had no idea, having spent his time admiring her instead of reading the menu.
‘I think I’ll have the same,’ he declared.
During lunch Emily proved to be very knowledgeable about the Gulf States and their political history and she seemed to know more about Muscat than he did, despite having lived there for eight months.
After finishing their lunch he offered to drive her back to her hotel. When they had driven for a mile she asked him to pull off the road for a moment. In his life hitherto, similar requests had led to a variety of social encounters but he suspected that this stop on the Muscat corniche would not lead to anything intimate. He put the transmission into park and turned to face her.
‘Dan, I am a UK Government agent and in need of some assistance. Richard Davies recommended you.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ he asked after a moment’s delay to re-organise his thought processes.
‘Ok, I’m not a journalist; I’m in the British equivalent to your CIA, and I’m hoping you’ll
give me a hand with something.’
He stared at her for a moment. ‘Hell, you’re serious!’ After a pause for thought he asked ‘Have you got some kind of ID, then?’
‘Of course I have,’ she replied. ‘It shows that I’m a British citizen named Emily Stevens and I have accreditation as a journalist plus letters of recommendation from ‘Time’,’ Newsweek’ and ‘The Economist’. And ‘Hello’ magazine.’
‘But really you’re a member of SIS or something.’
‘Yes. Later, if you want to, you can call on Richard Davies and he’ll give you some form of proof or assurance.’
‘So Richard’s not Head of Chancery?’
‘Of course he is, but he does other stuff too.’
Dan Hall digested this information and then frowned. ‘So what do you know about me, then?’ he asked.
‘I know that you are a US Marine Corps Captain, you have the usual skills that go with that distinguished role and you have an exemplary record.’ She paused. ‘I now would like you to pretend that you have gambling debts and that you have decided to trade arms with a dealer who operates out of Fujairah in order to clear those debts.’
He was somewhat irritated by this, but he was also very curious.
‘What’s the mission?’ he asked
‘Tracking down an arms dealer who is supplying the wrong people.’
‘Can’t you tell me a little more?’
‘I’d rather wait until we set off tomorrow morning,’ Emily replied, ‘assuming you’re prepared to come on board. I’ll brief you on the way to the border, and if you decide you don’t want to do it, we’ll turn round and I’ll bring you back.’ He had been thinking about inviting her out to dinner, but now that hardly seemed appropriate. Perhaps after the operation was complete, he thought to himself.
One thing of which he was sure was that if he started off tomorrow, they would not be turning round so he could scuttle back home. ‘Ok I accept.’
The Gilgamesh Conspiracy Page 9