“Russia is a staunch ally of Saddam’s, insomuch as he can have allies,” he continued, “so I used my position as the KGB’s top Fonko expert to convince their people to let me handle the interrogation. Interrogate you I must, but trust me on this. Better me than Uday.”
“You can question me all you want, but really I don’t know anything.”
“Not good enough, Jake. I’ve got to give them something plausible and they expect you to resist, so I’ve got to use methods.”
“You mean rip out my fingernails and hotwire my dick?”
“Uday would love to do that, with a little tooth extraction thrown in. We’re more sophisticated. We use drugs these days. After subjecting prisoners to sleep deprivation, abuse and neglect, of course—have to get them in the proper frame of mind, you know. Not that it’s any more humane. Some of our stuff leaves our, umm, clients mentally destroyed forever afterward. Sorry, old friend, but rest assured you’re in good hands and just endure it. Well, I’ve had long enough to assess your health and resistance. Mustn’t tarry or they’ll suspect something. Back to your cell, and it’ll be rough for a week or two, and then all will turn out well. Relatively speaking. You’ll see.”
*
So, that very afternoon a squad of Iraqi soldiers stormed into my cell. Grabbed me. Frog-marched me down stairs. Threw me into a damp, filthy isolation cell. Turned bright lights on and left them on. Had to sleep on the concrete floor in a putrid puddle. No shit bucket in the cell. Short rations of stale bread and rancid water.
Ranger survival training all over again.
After an indeterminate length of time they came and got me—dragged me, handcuffed, to a shower room. Stripped me and scrubbed me down with soap, tepid water and a very stiff bristle brush. Slipped a hospital gown on me and dragged / marched me up to a brightly-lit interrogation ward resembling an ER holding room in a cheap hospital. Strapped me down on a gurney.
Somebody stuck an IV needle in my arm and taped it firmly in place. Then Emil Grotesqcu came into the room in a white lab coat, carrying a thick attaché case. He set it down on a nearby table, pulled out a bottle and attached it to the IV line. “This won’t hurt a bit, Mr. Fonko,” he said. “I’m just sending you off to slumberland for a little while. How are you feeling today?”
“Never better,” I snarled.
“That’s the spirit. Always look on the sunny side.” He hung the IV bottle up on one of those racks they use and opened a valve. A colored liquid seeped down the transparent line. When it reached the needle in my arm he looked at his wristwatch for a short interval, then said, “Mr. Fonko, I’d like you to count from 100 backwards, please.”
I said, “Go fuck your…”
*
I woke up on an almost comfortable pad in a clean room feeling pretty good, certainly better than before he knocked me out. I needed the sleep.
“Anybody here?” I said. An Iraqi guard came into the room. “Speak English?” I asked.
“Little,” he replied.
“How about something to drink?” I asked.
“Sure thing.” He went out and said a few words to another guard, who left. The first guy went away and returned with a little bottle of pomegranate juice. It wasn’t cold, but it hit the spot nevertheless. He returned to sitting outside the door and I lay back and gathered my thoughts, which seemed to be normal as far as I could tell. I still wore the hospital gown and had no idea where my things were. Presently the other guard returned and brought Emil Grotesqcu in.
“How’s my sleepy-time boy?” he asked.
“Reasonable,” I said. “What did you put into me?”
“A substance that’s alleviated nearly as many ills as all the other modern drugs combined,” he said. “It’s called ‘placebo.’ Plus some sedative to knock you out and enough sodium pentothal to get you babbling. You’ve been out for a long time.”
“So how’d I do?”
“Well enough. I asked you about America’s military strategy and you gave me plenty of information that I can report to Saddam. What did you mean when you said, ‘Grab ‘em by the nose and then kick ‘em in the ass’? Is that some kind of American martial arts?”
“No, it was one of Patton’s dictums in World War II. The idea is that you divide your force in two. The smaller group engages the enemy’s force with a frontal assault, and a bigger group goes around his flank and rolls him up from the rear. Patton innovated a lot of armored mobility tactics.”
“Splendid. Saddam will love hearing about that—top secret stuff for sure. What was all that business about coordinated land, sea and air strikes, and ground game, wide-outs, throwing the big bomb? You mentioned the importance of flexible, mobile deployments. You also went on and on about air-supplied logistics, packaging supplies for parachute drops and so forth.”
“I was out like a light. I don’t remember a thing I said. What you mention sounds like stuff I learned in officers’ training twenty years ago, mixed in with football game TV commentary.”
“Whatever it was, there was enough of it that I can write an engrossing report on what my interrogation extracted from Jake Fonko, the CIA superspy. I’ll convince Saddam that I siphoned out everything you know and he’ll leave you alone for the time being.”
“Fine by me, but what happens next?”
“I think I can move you out of Abu Ghraib. I’ll tell Saddam that my drugs rendered you harmless and recommend that you be put under house arrest somewhere else. To keep you presentable as a bargaining chip, I’ll tell him. Whatever he comes up with has got to be an improvement over Abu Ghraib. You’ll have more privacy, and then we can plot how to get you out and back home.”
*
Grotesqcu’s attempt to spring me from Abu Ghraib fell short, but he managed an upgrade to a nicer cell that even came with a barred-window view of outdoors—a non-scenic corner of the prison grounds plus some sky beyond. As autumn had progressed the temperature and humidity dropped, so it verged on being comfortable, some days even California-like. Guards were no longer posted nearby and pretty much left me alone unless I called them. Soon after they installed me in my new digs Emil came by with a bottle of Russian vodka, premium quality. He smoothed it over with the guards by presenting them with a bottle of the same. In gratitude they brought us a bottle of fruit juice for mixers. While they got roaring drunk we sipped warm ersatz screwdrivers and caught up on things. The conversation mostly centered on him, since his KGB group kept him current on my doings.
“That business in the Philippines finally worked out well from my point of view. The way I framed it, you exploited my Communist network to steal the election from Ferdinand Marcos, then turned around and stole the government from the Communists. Just what the KGB would expect from a CIA superspy. The tricky part came in finessing it so that your triumph didn’t reflect badly on me. They bought my fictional account and upped my budget so that my group could keep a closer eye on you. ‘We daren’t let Fonko get away with something like this again!’ I told them.”
“I guess the Colombian drug cartel thing was easier for you to manage?”
“Once we got you through the Darien Jungle into Panama. It was touch and go for a while, but you handled it with your usual aplomb.”
“You arrived in Baghdad in the nick of time,” I said. “How’d you work that out?”
“Russia is an Iraqi ally. They’re a major customer for our arms industry, and they rely on us for support and intelligence. Your name is well known enough that word soon reached me of your capture in Kuwait City. I asserted my prerogative over your case and justified an emergency trip. I shudder to think what might have happened if Uday had been put in charge of the interrogation. So far, so good, but the situation is developing in troublesome ways.”
“I haven’t heard any news for more than a month. What’s happening?”
“The buildup of forces in Saudi Arabia c
ontinues apace,” said Grotesqcu. “That announcement on November 8 about increasing troop deployments has Saddam spooked. The American presence there already is vast, but the general scope is not widely appreciated. Our satellites have identified infrastructure and logistics rapidly building up there—airstrips, housing, storage—which we estimate is precursor to at least 200,000 American troops coming soon, not to mention coalition forces from European and Arab countries. Carrier groups already lay in the Red Sea and the Persian Gulf, and more will be on station by the time hostilities break out. No country puts that much military force in motion without intending to use it. We haven’t disclosed the full story to Saddam yet. He still doesn’t accept the possibility that the Saudis would let Americans attack an Arab brother from their own soil. He’ll find out soon enough.”
“Are you here in Baghdad for a while?”
“For as long as you are, which gives me every incentive to move you out ASAP. How I do hate these Middle East countries! The weather and the grime and the squalor aren’t even the worst of it. These wogs are simply insufferable. As polite as funeral directors to your face, and as mean as wolverines when they can get away with it. Take Saddam. He was as charming as a haute society hostess when he interviewed you. But a few years ago when the war with Iran was going badly the Minister of Health suggested he step down temporarily. Saddam personally shot him outside the chamber of the Revolutionary Command Council where they were meeting, then had him chopped up and delivered to his wife in a canvas bag. Uday’s a chip off the old block, and his troops follow their commander’s example.
“What they’ve been doing in Kuwait borders on insanity,” he continued, “and that flows from Saddam’s barbarian psychopathy as well. There’s always been looting of conquered countries. The Louvre is full of paintings and statuary Napoleon brought back from his victories, and Hitler’s collection of stolen art is well known. But the Iraqis have stolen everything from everywhere and carted it back home, from gutting factories and hospitals to trinkets and children’s games from private villas. They dismantled Entertainment City, a big amusement park, and brought its carousels, miniature trains and even its chairs to Baghdad. Bah! Nickels and dimes and pennies! Though I suppose one can admire their attention to details. By the time the U.S. forces push them out there will be nothing left of Kuwait that was.”
“The Iraqis had already pretty well stripped the place by the time I left,” I said. “Nobody deserves what happened to Kuwait. As far as Arabs go, the Kuwaitis treated me well enough, all things considered. But they hired me to come there in the first place under false pretenses, come to think of it. What about you? How are things in Moscow these days? We haven’t talked much since the Iron Curtain came down in Europe.”
“Precarious situation. Very precarious. Those numbskulls in Oslo just awarded Mikhail Gorbachev the Nobel Peace Prize, anointing him to join Yasser Arafat, Henry Kissinger and Le Duc Tho in their harebrained Pantheon. I’m surprised they didn’t give Peace Prizes to Neville Chamberlain and Vidkun Quisling, and Benedict Arnold too, posthumously. Your damned Ronald Reagan and his ‘Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall.’ And then it came down overnight, uniting East and West Germany much to everyone’s surprise, and Gorbachev peeped not once.
“But there is such a delicious irony to it. In the 1960s our useful idiots at your universities formed the vanguard, led the revolution, waged the good war, and fought the good fight. Power to the people! Free speech! Equality! Off the pigs! Make love not war! Give peace a chance! All the usual rubbish we’ve always spouted, except that this time your students actually believed it! They succeeded in crippling your universities, but in doing so they brought about the collapse of the Soviet Empire. How did they manage that, one might ask? By frightening California voters into electing Ronald Reagan governor. They kept up the agitation and next thing you know, Reagan’s sitting in your White House. Then he gets together with that Thatcher witch, and the curtain comes down. There’s an object lesson in all this: Never rely on idiots.”
“So you think this will spill over into Russia?”
“How can it not?” he said. “The arms race with your country is driving our economy to the wall, and on top of that you’ve exported your inflation to us. It won’t be long before our former allies to our west join NATO. Without them to exploit our system is done for.”
“How about the KGB? They’ll keep that going, won’t they?”
“Russia can’t get along without secret police, but who says it necessarily must be the KGB? Russia is full of big fists just itching to occupy the seat of power and not all of them are fond of my organization. One ray of hope is a fellow named Vladimir Putin, an up-and-comer out of the KGB. But his rise is a long shot and who knows if he’d keep the KGB intact, or continue to support a Jake Fonko operation?”
“I’d hate to see you taken off my case,’ I said. “If there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.”
“That’s gracious of you, Jake,” he said. “I’ll surely tell you if something comes up. For the time being I’ll just keep my head above water and see how long I stay afloat. I have nightmares about winding up on a trawler off Hawaii electronically monitoring financial transactions between the U.S. and Asia. By the way,” he added, “I did place a call to your friend, Miss Wehrli. You never told her about me, did you?”
“I thought it best to keep our relationship under wraps. I get a lot of benefit out of it too, and I’d hate to have word leak out.”
“Yes, that’s best. She’s a charming girl as you well know. I couldn’t tell her much, certainly not where you are right now, but I assured her that you were fine and will be here for a while. She asked about taking care of your house. I told her you’d appreciate it if she’d look in from time to time and make sure things are okay. I hope that was right?”
“Much obliged. She has a key.”
“She told me to tell you she has a new job and can’t wait to tell you all about it. I told her it might be few weeks yet. The Iraqis are still letting foreigners leave Kuwait. If I can contrive to smuggle you down there, that’s a possibility. Not much chance of getting you out through Baghdad with the tight surveillance they have on you, but I’ll try. In not too long a time this is no place we will want to be. Those American troops across the border from Kuwait mean serious business.”
December 8, 1990 to January 17, 1991
Emil Grotesqcu dropped in from time to time to keep me up to date on world events. I enjoyed the company but after my interrogation it was mostly one boring day after another—me a gilded bird in a cage. Until he came in with disturbing information. “The U.S. evacuated their Kuwaiti Embassy yesterday,” he told me. “All Americans who wanted to leave have left now. This in the wake of the U.N. Security Council authorizing the use of force.”
“Sounds like they’re clearing the decks for invasion,” I said.
“Yes it does, and here’s some other bad news. Saddam received an official report from his intelligence people in Kuwait. According to them, you masterminded the escape of the Al Sabah family. You were organizing the Kuwaiti resistance movement. None of this came out in my interrogation, so now he has his doubts about me. He wants a re-do to find out what else you know.”
“Same routine as last time?”
“He wants to go further. I’ll forestall him as best I can and I’ll shape the interrogation around what he wants to find out, but you’re going to have to come up with new material.”
“I can’t tell you what I don’t know,” I said.
“I could skip the drugs and we could fake the whole thing. You were in the movies. You could babble out a prepared script that might satisfy him.”
“I’m not that good an actor. I was only an extra in Hollywood, not a star of stage and screen. They never gave me speaking parts. You’ll have to do the drugs, and we’ll hope for the best.”
So we repeated the softening-up process, the IV dri
p and whatever theatrics Grotesqcu performed while I was knocked out. A few days later he returned looking discouraged. “Not good, Jake, not good at all,” he said. “Saddam’s swallowed the tales of your espionage prowess so he expects more out of these interrogations. You babbled something about meetings with the Kuwaiti leadership, but it made no sense at all. Saddam is not impressed with my methods. He’s going to interview you again, personally. I needn’t mention that the both of us are in grave danger right now. Damn it, Jake, couldn’t you at least have made something up for me?”
“I don’t pretend to be a pharmacist, but don’t they call sodium pentothal ‘truth serum’?”
“Yes, but… Oh well, do your best with him.”
*
A couple days later Saddam himself came into my cell block, along with Uday and a couple of towering, stone-faced Republican Guards. Saddam carried some file folders and Uday packed a truncheon. One of the Guards unlocked my door and they escorted me to an interrogation room. It was bare save for two chairs and a well-worn wood table. Saddam and Uday seated themselves in the two chairs behind the table, leaving me standing in front of it. The Guards stood at attention right alongside me. Oozing hostility, Uday eased back, hoisting his big feet up on the table, the soles of his shoes in my face—an Arab sign of emphatic disrespect. Saddam placed his file folders on the table, opened one and sifted through some papers.
Saddam was not in his charming-host persona today. “Mr. Fonko, our KGB associate has interrogated you two times. Neither time did he uncover the secret information that I am firmly convinced you harbor. I suppose, owing to your espionage training, you were able to resist disclosing secrets but every man has his breaking point, and I am sure that so far we have not approached yours.” You’re close enough, I thought. “The last American hostages left Iraq few days ago. Holding them no longer served my purposes. The two sides are gearing up for war and I promise you it will be the mother of all battles. It will pit my combat-hardened army and invincible Republican Guards, fighting on their own soil and equipped with the latest Russian tanks, against an inexperienced and poorly organized coalition of forces thrown together in an unfamiliar part of the world.
The Jake Fonko Series: Books 4, 5 & 6 Page 56