I looked around the room to engage eye contact, with an especially friendly smile toward the Emir. Then… here goes nothing!
“Honored Emir,” I began. “Distinguished leaders of Kuwait. Mr. Fawaz has entrusted me with the task of offering some ideas and suggestions in regard to the unfortunate situation along your northern border. He personally took me on a helicopter inspection tour to witness the situation with my own eyes. On the basis of what I saw there, I will now share with you my thoughts on the subject. Some of what I say may displease some in this room, but be assured I speak with deepest respect as a loyal friend and servant.
“What I witnessed across your border is a formidable army, brought there by the Iraqi shaytan, Saddam Hussein. I will not mislead you. It is an army of 100,000 hardened soldiers, with 400 battle tanks and artillery battalions. They lie 40 miles from your beautiful city. I know of no situation in which an army that large and combat-ready has not been sent into battle. As they have no need to fear an attack by Kuwait, those troops can have been brought there for one purpose only—to invade your innocent and friendly country.”
Most of the men in the room received the news calmly. I was telling them nothing they didn’t know very well already.
“Sunday I heard spokesmen for your honorable families offer their sons as leaders in the defense against the Iraqi aggressors. That is laudable and to be commended. But… should the Iraqi forces storm across the border your sons would be slaughtered to no avail. Kuwaiti armed forces as they presently stand have no hope of turning back the Iraqi tide, or even of delaying them long enough to make a difference. If Saddam Hussein is bent on taking Kuwait, your sons cannot prevent it.
“So here is my summation: From a military standpoint the immediate situation is hopeless. My advice is to safeguard and preserve what you can of your military materiel and prepare to evacuate as many of your leading people as possible. Kuwait has billions of dollars of overseas reserves, so a government in exile can easily be supported for as long as it takes for your allies to expel the invaders. And that time will not be long in coming, for you can rest assured that the Western, petroleum-dependent nations will not allow such a catastrophe as Saddam Hussein controlling half of the Gulf’s oil fields to stand.
“It would be insanity to needlessly sacrifice your beloved sons in a doomed defensive mission. Rather, they better should be kept out of harm’s way in readiness to return and rebuild your beloved country once the Iraqi devils are expelled. Of course some of them must stay behind to look after your families’ interests. For those loyal Kuwaiti sons remaining, arms and ammunition should be distributed immediately so that they may carry on resistance against the invaders.
“For the time being, Kuwait should use every diplomatic means to avert, or at least delay, an attack by Iraq, while praying to Allah that Saddam Hussein will recognize the error of his ways and abandon his evil scheme. But waste no time in preparing for an evacuation in the event of an attack. Should the Iraqi troops move across the border, seek safe havens abroad where you can bide your time until they are defeated and sent back where they came from.
“I thank you gentlemen for allowing me to express my humble opinions. I hope I have been of service to you.”
I made a little bow, then stepped back away from the lectern. I saw no visible audience reaction aside from a little cessation on the worry beads.
“No need for us to remain. These men have much to discuss among themselves. Your job is done. Let’s go get some coffee,” said Fawaz as he rose, put a hand on my elbow and guided me out into the hallway. He closed the door and exclaimed, “Brilliant, Mr. Jake. I knew you’d come through.”
“It wasn’t much. I just advised them to do what all of them really wanted to do, and gave them public permission to get on with it. I don’t see anything further I can do here, so I really think I should be getting back to Los Angeles.”
“Quite right,” said Fawaz. “Excellent. You’ve earned every penny of your fee. Ha ha, half their sons are on vacation in Paris, London, Monaco and Dubai already, as are the rest of the elite families, as Kuwaitis who can afford it always leave during the hot months. The rest have been packing for evacuation for days. I’ll get working on your journey home. I think I can put you on a Kuwait Airlines plane heading out of here on Thursday, the day after tomorrow. That will give you one more day to enjoy Kuwait City now that your job is completed. I have to get back in the meeting. You have provided an action plan, so my job now is to help get everything in motion. Thank you again, Mr. Jake. You were magnificent.”
*
Mid-morning the next day Fawaz called to tell me everything was arranged. He would personally pick me up at 0930 hours to deliver me to the airport. A Kuwait Airlines non-scheduled flight would take me First Class to Paris, where I could either catch a connection to Los Angeles or stay for a few days to enjoy myself as their guest if I wished. He’d bring my papers and passport, and after he saw me off he’d tell the bank to wire the balance of my fee to my account.
So I had the rest of Wednesday to myself. With the pressure off, I decided to take a closer look at the town. The desk told me Mr. Haroun was assigned to other duties, so Raghu drove me to the city center. First stop was the Grand Souk. It was like a Walmart wet dream—huge, filled with every type of goods anyone could ever want, and teeming with desperate, rich customers. Although it was completely covered and sun-shaded, unfortunately it also opened to the outside hot, muggy air. The crowd seemed about equally divided into Kuwaitis in traditional robes (white for the men, black for the women), and foreigners in more westernized garb, jeans especially. Reflecting the generally apprehensive atmosphere in town, many of them stocked up on necessities. I didn’t need anything by way of household goods, Arabian art or souvenir trinkets, but it was entertaining enough to roam around soaking up exotic sights, sounds (Arab music) and smells… excepting one area where the sewage system apparently had broken down.
For lunch I grabbed a mystery meat burger at a local fast food joint, Hungry Bunny, and ate it in air-conditioned comfort. I then had Raghu guide me over to the gold souk. It reminded me of the gold shops in Singapore, but it held shimmering displays of necklaces, rings, bangles, bracelets, barrettes, broaches, pins, pendants, charms and bars of bullion vaster by orders of magnitude. Those Arabs do love their gold. And today they hurriedly bought up large amounts of it. Made sense, since it was a proven safe store of wealth in times of trouble. I managed to elbow my way through the crush to buy a few trinkets for Dana—gold jewelry showed up well against her blonde ponytail and tan. The guidebooks said Kuwait had some museums, but the descriptions didn’t appeal. For all its wealth and modernity there wasn’t much interesting for a foreigner to do in Kuwait. Even having a drink somewhere posed a challenge.
I went back to the hotel, swam some laps in the pool, lounged around. Read the papers. Evening came and I packed my things up. Called Dana, told her I’d be home earlier than planned, filled her in on the latest. Watched CNN on the TV through a news cycle, didn’t learn anything. But that’s typical.
Overseas CNN showed selected foreign news with an American spin, played exotic music at the station breaks, and called itself “international.” The news on the local English-language channel, KTV2, was odd. It showed Kuwaiti dignitaries coming and going, here and there, but had no commentary, just some semi-classical background music. I went to bed looking forward to boarding that plane. First class, Fawaz said. Thinking about the past week, it turned out to be some of the easiest money I’d ever made. And a few days R and R in Paris? That’s the ticket! Oh nine thirty hours couldn’t come soon enough.
Thursday, August 2, 1990
I was enjoying a goofily pleasant dream that featured me tap-dancing to “Begin the Beguine” with Fred Astaire and Eleanor Powell in a black-and-white Busby Berkeley stage setting when I snapped awake to what I realized was the rattle of heavy machine-gun fire. The clock showed 6:28.
I bounced out of bed and parted the window drapes.
A rising orange sun still hung low in the sky, but I could see enough to get the picture. Flames and billows of black smoke rose in several parts of the city center. It was two klicks away, so I couldn’t tell what was burning. A tank, swiveling its turret, moved along a shadowy section of First Ring Road down below that was visible from my room. I saw it loose a machine-gun burst at something.
No doubt tanks roved along Arabian Gulf Street on the other side of the hotel as well. That was closer, so the gunfire that woke me up probably came from there. Attack choppers buzzed around through the downtown high-rise buildings. It looked like one fired a rocket. I checked out the airport. No air traffic, just more attack choppers hovering and darting like fire-spitting dragonflies.
Shit. The Iraqis had attacked. There goes my R & R in Paris.
I couldn’t see any troops moving around on the streets below my window. A few cars passed on the Ring Road, despite the tank—brave drivers. Or clueless. Apparently most of the action was downtown and around the harbor. The east side of the city wasn’t an immediately critical military objective. Troops would arrive in numbers soon enough. I saw another tank on First Ring Road roll out from behind a building.
I cleaned up and dressed—electricity and water still functioned, a good sign. At least I wouldn’t have to walk down all those stairs to get breakfast. I looked out the window again—more smoke plumes rose among the high-rises. I saw an explosion. Waited a few seconds, didn’t hear it. The double-glazed windows killed the sound. Then I did hear an explosion echoing up, a cannon report, probably a tank down below firing at something. I got no sense of any military opposition mounted against the Iraqis.
My flight home wouldn’t be happening for a while, damn the luck. It made sense for the Iraqis to shut down the airport first thing. When it would reopen for civilian flights remained to be seen, and when it did they would control it.
I turned on the TV and scanned the news channels, but it was too soon for accurate, let alone comprehensive, coverage. I had a better chance of getting the skinny in the lobby. I rode the elevator down along with a clutch of anxiously chatty fellow guests to find the place abuzz with people in various states of dress and panic. I hadn’t seen much of my fellow guests in between my comings and goings, and it turned out to be quite a mix. Voluble Europeans in business suits. Ululating Arabs in robes and headdress. Outspoken Americans in expensive polo shirts asserting their rights. Restrained but obviously frightened Asians. A regular United Nations convention. And the hotel management anxiously trying to forestall a potential uprising. I noted several stern, be-robed Arab men standing around on the side, closely monitoring the crowd.
No one knew much at that early hour. The Iraqis crossed the border at 2 a.m., roared down Highway 80 and streamed straight into the center of the city, was the consensus. J-One Army Base put up some resistance, but the main force bypassed them and secured the harbor, the airport and government buildings. City center already swarmed with Iraqi troops. They brooked no interference, shot first and didn’t ask questions later. The lobby crowd pressed the desk with distraught questions about immediate dangers and ways out of Kuwait City, but the management spokesmen could tell them little. I went toward the front door to take a look outside, and two of those stern Arab men intercepted me and motioned me back to the lobby.
It was too early in the game for the invasion to disrupt the hotel’s operations, so the restaurant had opened its lavish breakfast buffet on time. I filled a platter and took a small table. A waiter poured me some strong local coffee. As if I needed a wake-up jolt. Diners around me huddled together in close, nervous conferences. I took stock of my situation. The Iraqi force I’d seen over the border was sufficient to overwhelm the Kuwaiti military, and they’d already pretty much done it. There was no chance I’d be getting on a flight out any time soon. The Hilton Hotel was as safe as anywhere, as it had no military value. Typically, invading forces house their honchos in the best accommodations available, so the Iraqis had good reason to keep it functioning. As for me personally, much depended on the stance of Iraq vis-à-vis America. If we were a declared enemy I was too visible there to last long once the Iraqis checked the registry.
So let’s see:
Personal equipage: No weapons. Enough money if my credit cards worked. Some traveler’s cheques but very little local cash if they didn’t. Six changes of haute-business clothes—half of it suitable for European climates—and two weeks of shirts and underwear, plus the outdoors duds I’d brought as advised. I neither speak nor read the local language, but many locals speak English.
Contacts and back-up: Fawaz, who I’m sure had heeded my advice at first opportunity. Ernest Toyler at the U.S. Embassy. Christabel, my Filipina maid. Raghu, my Indian driver. Even if Fawaz were still in town, he’d given me no contact numbers, and as I’d worked strictly under his control and would be leaving soon, I knew no one in the government but him. My passport resided at Fawaz’s intelligence ministry (which Iraqi intelligence operatives probably were rifling through already) leaving me with no documentation but a photocopy of it and my California driver’s license; and Arabs were sticklers for documents. It had never occurred to me to bring along one of my fake passports.
Situation assessment: (1) I’m on my own. (2) I’m fucked.
*
I returned to my room after breakfast. It was mid-evening in Los Angeles so I tried to call Dana Wehrli to let her know I’d be delayed. The phone worked, but it was no dice getting an out-of-country line. The Iraqis most likely had seized the telecommunications building. I parted the drapes and surveyed the unfolding catastrophe. More smoke rose from the city center. Uniformed soldiers now wandered around on the streets below in gangs, apparently without defined missions. As I watched, a couple of them probed a parked BMW sedan, trying the doors. One smashed the driver’s window with his rifle, opened the door from the inside and scrambled in, the other hovering raptly. Presently he emerged with the car’s radio in his triumphant hands—useless to him, but he must have totally destroyed the dashboard in getting it. After an animated debate between the two he tossed his trophy onto the street, and they sauntered away to find a shady spot.
There was still no local TV news, and what came through from Dubai told nothing informative. I had a better chance of learning something useful in the lobby, so I went back down. Despite Iraqi soldiers and tanks roaming around in our vicinity the Hilton Hotel had not yet brooked any damage. While the help went about their business as best they could, the guests who weren’t mobbing the desk milled around in a daze. At least it wasn’t like the fall of Phnom Penh in 1975 when the Khmer Rouge took over, ordered everybody out of town, and mowed down anybody who objected. The recollection gave me comfort. I’d survived that—no way could this be worse.
I started chats with several of the westerners who looked like they might have a clue. None did. Like me, most were transients with no access at that moment to their local contacts. The Iraqi force concentrated on securing downtown and the harbor. The Hilton Hotel sat several klicks distant from the day’s main action, which except for the explosions and smoke clouds, was beyond our view. With no news to be had and no one venturing out on the streets, hard facts were scarce. One of the men behind the desk caught my eye and motioned me over with a nod of his head. As I approached him, he indicated I should follow him.
He led me into the manager’s office, closed the door and motioned for me to sit. “Mr. Fonko,” he said, “it goes without saying how sorry I am for this inconvenience, as I know you planned to leave this morning.”
“No need to apologize. It was hardly your fault.”
“True, but one does feel sympathy. Since you are a guest of the Al Sabah family, as well as an American, there are some things I need to tell you. Reports are that members of the Al Sabah family, as well as other high-ranking officials, evacuated before the Iraqis arrived. Res
t assured that charges for your room and other services will be covered by the prior arrangement for the foreseeable future.”
“I appreciate that,” I said.
“Think nothing of it. Al Sabah credit is always good in Kuwait. As for your American status, it is highly likely that America is considered to be an enemy of Iraq, and if your President Bush protests the invasion, that is a certainty. So I must warn you that several days ago a number of highly-placed Iraqi officials took rooms here in the Hilton Hotel, obviously in anticipation of today’s invasion. In fact I saw two of them turn you away from venturing outside earlier in the day. Inevitably they will examine our register book, so be careful. Especially, watch what you say over the telephone. I understand they already have seized control of the ministry of information and the telephone office.”
“Thank you for the warnings. Is there anywhere I can get news of what’s happening right now?
“Not yet. It’s too early. The invasion took us by surprise, and the world at large is just now hearing about these unfortunate events, with few details or even facts yet known. The invasion has not even been mentioned on television news yet, and I doubt you’ll get any semblance of truth about it when Kuwaiti TV channels resume broadcasting. My sources tell me the Iraqis crossed the border at two o’clock last night and reached here four hours later. They met little opposition, seized control of the airport, and bypassed the military base at Jahra to take the harbor and the central district. They are inflicting considerable damage there, and already have begun looting the shops.”
“Do you anticipate trouble here in the Hotel?”
The Jake Fonko Series: Books 4, 5 & 6 Page 49