“As-salamu `alaykum, Şāhb as-Smw al-Mlky, Wḩsn Mnkm Lruyty,” I had politely replied in my crude colloquial tongue of the Atlas Mountains, taking the offered hand – gently grasping it, but not shaking it. ‘Peace be unto you, Your Royal Highness, so good of you to see me.’ Tilting my head slightly forward, I had added “Wnā Lá Thqh Lkm, Wlkm, Wkdhlk Jmy.” ‘I trust you, and yours, are all well.’
“Ānh Lāmr Jyd Jdā Lruytk Mrh ‘Khrá, Şdyqy al-Qdym – Wnā Lá Thqh Nk Ydā Bshkl Jyd,” openly smiling, the Prince had reciprocated my greeting. ‘It is very good to see you again, my old friend – I trust that you are also well.’
I had smiled back. Over the years that we had known each other, we had always greeted one another in the same formal way.
Formalities over, the Prince had grasped my extended hand tighter, gently taking hold of my forearm with his other hand. “And how is that truly incorrigible Irish friend, of mine?”
“Oh, Patrick is very well – and sends you his kindest regards.”
“Good – I am most pleased to hear that,” replied the Prince, guiding me over to one of two ornately gilded French Salon chairs, which had faced its twin over a low, rectangular black marble occasional table. “Please, take a seat,” he had continued, releasing his hold on my forearm and gesturing to the chair.
However, observing etiquette, I had waited for the Prince to sit down opposite me, before sitting down in the lavishly upholstered salon chair. The next formality had been for the Prince to offer me refreshments – but I had declined. It had been a Friday and, from personal knowledge, I knew that the Prince fasted until after mid-day prayers. Under those circumstances, it would have been considered discourteous and impolite if I had taken refreshment without my host also participating.
“I trust that Sir Barry has kept you fully informed of matters, Your Royal Highness,” I had asked.
“Yes, indeed he has,” had replied the Prince, bringing his hands together in front to his chest, interlocking his perfectly manicure fingers together. “That is, to an extent. I have no knowledge as to detail, though,” he had added.
“Would you care for me to enlighten you as to detail, Your Royal Highness?” I had offered. “Although, I must point out, I am not privy as to the actual security risk that our Embassy Officer presents.”
“Well, I am privy of that information – and I have to tell you that it is a most serious compromise of security,” the Prince had immediately responded – but still calm and clinical, as if he had been referring to something totally insignificant. “It poses a serious and credible risk, not only to Jordanian national security – but also to the Joint Coalition Forces, as well.”
Over the preceding months, since the autumn of the previous year, Joint Coalition Forces, made up of both Western and Middle-Eastern powers, had been progressively building up military forces, predominantly in Saudi Arabia, poised ready to re-take Kuwait – it had been just a matter of when? The Prince’s direct reference, to the potential security threat to the Joint Coalition Forces, had served as confirmation as to why the British Embassy Officer had needed to be killed – and why I had been called in to expedite matters.
“I understand, Your Royal Highness” I had said, and then had expanded “Sir Barry had indicated that our man had been entrusted with sensitive information. Information that must not fall into Iraqi hands, at all cost – and that is why I am here.”
“I am most glad, and truly indebted to Sir Barry for sending you, Martin.” The Prince had leaned across the low marble topped table, and had taken hold of my hands in his. “We know from the good services that you have performed for my country, in the past – that you won’t let us down in this matter.” Pausing, the Prince had sat back in his chair again. “It is imperative that you’re Embassy Officer in eliminated. What he knows, by definition, would implicate my country in complicity of plotting against Saddam Hussein. And that could have the most dire consequences for our national security and sovereignty.”
His Royal Highness had been quite right. They had been between the rock and the hard place…the rock on one hand being Israel – the hard place being Iraq. Ever since the debacle of the first Arab-Israeli War, the Six Day War, in 1967, and the almost total decimation of his military forces, King Hussein of Jordan had tried to tread the middle ground. On one hand, he had courted the support of the West – the West, in turn, re-equipping his depleted air force and military in return for the King’s political support in the region. On the other hand, he had represented the interests of other Arab states in the area, including Iraq, frequently acting as a broker in discussions with the West. However, after the invasion of Kuwait, there had been those in the West, especially the Bush administration, who had been deeply suspicious of the way that the King had been trying to negotiate with Saddam Hussein over withdrawing from the occupied Kingdom – believing that the Jordanians may have been secretly supporting the Iraqis. But, nothing could have been further from the truth – King Hussein had been an honest intermediary, trying hard to find a peaceful resolution to the situation.
“You have my ‘diplomatic pouch’, Your Royal Highness?”
“Ah, yes.” The Prince had unfolded his hands and had clicked the fingers of his right hand – just the once.
The response to his beckoning had been almost instantaneous, as a tall well built man had entered the room, his hands holding out in front of him a covered tray. Quickly, he had almost glided across the marbled floor to where the Prince and I had been sitting, opposite one other. Bowing to the Prince, he had carefully placed the covered tray down on to the low occasional table and, bowing again, had turned and left the room as quickly as he had entered it.
“May I remove the cover, Your Royal Highness?” I had asked politely.
“Of course, most certainly you can – I am quite intrigued as to what you might have there.”
His Royal Highness had known exactly what had been on the tray – it was but the formalities of polite political etiquette that he had been pandering to.
“Thank you, Your Royal Highness,” I had ingratiated, removing the white silk cloth that had covered the large silver tray.
Arranged in perfect symmetry on the polished mirrored surface of the tray had been the contents of the diplomatic pouch: a 7.62 Walther PPK automatic pistol; a clip of high velocity, heavy grained, jacketed soft nosed ammunition; a six inch suppressor; and lastly, in comparison to the Walther, my diminutive .25 cal Colt Pocket Vest Pistol.
“This is all very much James Bondish for you, Martin,” the Prince had commented, gesturing to the Walther with an elegant sweep of his right hand.
“Small is beautiful when there is a need to conceal something about your person, Your Royal Highness.”
“You would not be able to conceal this from my people, Martin.”
“Oh agreed, Your Royal Highness,” I had conceded. “But they are not Iraqis – are they? Your people look where others fear to glance.”
The Prince had smiled. “No, they are most definitely not Iraqis.” Leaning forward, the Prince had picked up the clip containing the heavy grained, jacketed soft nosed ammunition, sliding the first round out of the magazine, lightly holding it between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand as he had pretended to examine it – His Royal Highness had know exactly what it was. “Your sling may be small, but it throws a lethal stone, my friend,” he had remarked.
“Thank you, Your Royal Highness.”
“But regards to this toy here,” the Prince had continued, pointing to the little .25 cal Colt Pocket Vest Pistol. “What would you hope to achieve with this, Martin – it is surely far too small to be of any practicable use?”
“It unlocks a certain door, Your Royal Highness.”
“And what door is that?”
“The door to Paradise – Your Royal Highness.”
For a moment the Prince had not replied, he had been considering the inference of what I had just said. “I most sincerely hope and pray that it doe
s not come to that, my dear friend,” he had said – a note of genuine concern in his tone.
“Me, too,” I had quipped back. “But, it is either that, or Iraqi prison food – and that would definitely be the death of me!”
In reality though, from past experience, I knew that I would be incapable of taking my own life – something, or someone, was always there to prevent it.
His Royal Highness had smiled briefly, before his expression had again become serious. “You will resolve this matter for us, won’t you? It is most vital for my country that your man dies. You understand, Martin?”
“Yes, I understand perfectly, Your Royal Highness,” I had reassured him. “As with all our transactions – consider the matter resolved.”
The Prince had smiled in muted approval and had stood up. I had followed suit, also standing.
“You must forgive me, my friend, but I have other matters to attend to,” he had said, more a statement than an apology.
“Of course, You’re Royal Highness.”
“Until the next time, then, Martin.” The Prince had offered out his right hand towards me, for me to take.
“Thank you for seeing me, Your Royal Highness,” I had said, slightly bowing my head towards the Prince.
“Jyd aş-Şyd, Wşdyqy al-Qdym.” ‘Good hunting, my old friend,’ the Prince had wished me, before bidding me farewell with: “al-Lh Ykwn Mk.” ‘God be with you.’
“Wkdhlk M Lkm – Şāhb as-Smw al-Mlky,” I had replied. ‘And also with you – Your Royal Highness.’
Having bid me farewell, the Prince had left the room though the large open glass doors into the courtyard beyond, disappearing from view – leaving me to collect up the contents of the silver tray.
Izzy Wizzy – time to get busy!
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
“What Ho – you must be my VIP passenger,” a British Army helicopter pilot, with the rank of Captain, had addressed me as I had approached the unmarked Huey helicopter, its previous markings painted out with drab olive paint.
“My name is Garry, and I shall be your tour guide for the evening,” he had added, introducing himself.
“And my name is Martin,” I had reciprocated.
***
In the same convoy of Range Rovers, which had initially taken me to GID headquarters, in Amman, we had covered the three hundred kilometres to the airstrip, close to the border with Iran, in less than three hours.
The convoy had bludgeoned its way through the heavy traffic of Amman like hot knives through butter; and then had torn frantically along roads, no better than dirt tracks, at speeds that could have been considered reckless…but, there again, I am a poor passenger, at the best of times – I don’t like being driven. The airstrip, to which I had been taken, had been a dispersal airbase for the Royal Jordanian Air Force’s, Mirage F1’s. Close to the Iraq border, it had placed the Mirage jet fighters at some distance from the F15 Eagles of the Israeli Air Force – providing them with sufficient air time to flee out of harm’s way, should the Israelis had a mind to launch an air strike against them. Apart from a few large empty hangers, hardened protected stand points and a solitary fuel bowser, the airstrip had been completely deserted, save for one lone helicopter at the far end of the runway – a lone Huey.
“So good to meet you,” the British Army helicopter pilot had continued with his greeting.
Removing the extremely dark Gucci sunglasses, which he had been wearing, he had stepped forward to shake my hand. About five foot ten, of average build, his completion had been left slightly blotchy and covered by the white flaky scales of Eczema – not excessively, but, close up, quite noticeable. His black hair, close cropped at the sides, had been a thick curly mane on top of his head.
“It’s good to meet you, too,” I had replied. “You have something for me, I believe.”
“I certainly have,” he had replied, turning and sliding open the side door of the Huey; exposing a small holdall, a parachute pack and, at the far end of the cargo area, under the solitary bench, a body bag – the contents of which had been faintly noticeable to my acute sense of smell.
The holdall had contained a pair of military boots; camouflaged combat pants and tunic; assorted matching underwear – which I had returned back into the bag – and a tan coloured Aba, a long Arabic traditional cloak, with hood. The tunic of the jacket had carried the insignia of a Junior Technician, a four bladed propeller; and the identity slash of one: ‘JT N.F. W….’ Taking off the clothes that I had worn, I had proceeded to dress in the disruptive pattern material of the standard issue British Army camouflage combats…drab green, brown and black – putting the trousers on first.
“What about the smalls?” the helicopter pilot had asked.
“I don’t wear vests,” I had explained. “And I prefer my own style of shorts.”
Which had been quite true. My shorts had contained a reinforced false fly, in the front, that had housed the small diminutive Colt Pocket Vest Pistol. Ideal place for concealment; not many people would ‘pat’ you down there – but it did make relieving oneself a bit of a problem, though.
“That’s absolutely cool, with me,” he had conceded, smiling. “Far be it from me to tell you what draws to wear.”
“Who’s in the body bag?” I had asked, putting on the camouflaged tunic.
“Oh, sorry about that,” the Army Captain had apologised. “That, I am led to believe, is the ‘real’ N.F. W…,” he had gone on to explain. “He’s apparently been kept in a freezer for the last couple of weeks, or so, and I need to get him sufficiently thawed before throwing him out, tomorrow. Obviously, that is, if you haven’t got yourself caught. I shan’t throw him out until after I’ve picked you up. Play it safe – can’t have two N.F. W…s kicking around in bandit country, can we? That would never do, would it?”
“No, that would never do,” I had agreed, finding my pilot’s quintessential public school manner very pleasing. “Have you been briefed about the intent and objectives of the mission?”
“Only sufficient for me to do my job,” he had promptly replied. “I take you out this evening, drop you off, and then return back for you before first light, tomorrow morning – all tickety-boo.”
“So, you don’t know what my objectives are?”
“No – Sir Barry didn’t disclose them – other that it was imperative that I get you in and get you out, again, all in one piece.”
“And I have every confidence that you will do exactly that, Garry,” I had assured with him. “You don’t mind if I call you Garry?” I had added.
“Oh, absolutely not – it’s far better than being called ‘Pizza Face’,” he had confided to me, pointing to the faint red blotchy rash on either side of his angular nose.
In fairness to him, his facial complexion, although noticeable, did not seem to warrant such derision. “That’s very rude,” I had commented. “Very rude, indeed.”
I don’t ever tolerate rudeness. The last time that someone had been rude to me – had been their last!
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Dusk had begun to fall as we had lifted off from the airstrip, the Huey’s rotor blades making their reassuring ‘whomp whomp’ chatter as we had headed off low, eastwards, into Iraq.
Some two hundred kilometres from the Jordan-Iraq border, and close to the border with Syria, Akashat was a small mining town in the northwest province of Iraq. Built in the mid eighties around a phosphate quarry and its railroad, it had provided basic housing for workers and their families. Although administered by the Iraqi Ministry of Industry, it had its own small local police force, which had operated out of an equally small police station – the police station where our man from the British Embassy had been held.
Flying east, we had quickly lost what available daylight there had been, as we had flown directly into the night. But, this had been no ordinary Huey – this had been a ‘Special Ops’ slick. The Huey UH-N1 had been fitted out with advanced avionics: Control Display Navigation Units; GPS/D
oppler navigation; infra red and low light optics. Most of the rows of gauges and switches, which would have normally been fitted across the instrument panel of a conventional Huey, had been replaced or supplemented with three additional liquid crystal colour displays and a small data entry key board. The two larger screens had been multifunctional displays. One of these had provided images from the forward pointing cameras and the array of sensors fitted in the Huey’s nose, displaying the view directly ahead in high resolution – either in normal view, wide or zoom – in conjunction with thermal and low light imaging, with the ability to mix and match any combination of view required. The other screen had provided GPS data, radar images and digital maps from the advanced onboard avionics. The smaller of the three display screens had also been multifunctional; displaying diagnostic messages from the on-board computer – it could also display the text of received and transmitted messages.
Hugging the ground, frequently at heights of less than thirty metres, to avoid the Iraqi radar – in ever decreasing visibility, Garry had flown the Huey directly east. Using the sophisticated array of on-board Inertial Navigation Systems and GPS, he had tracked low above the barren rocky landscape, varying the height of the Huey to match the undulating contours, beneath us. The route that we had taken had been identical to that of the flight plan of the C-130 Hercules transport aircraft, which should have left King Abdullah Air Base at the same time that we had lifted off from the small airstrip, by the border. If all had gone to plan, then they should have been over-flying us, as we had neared Akashat. Garry had flown several kilometres north of the town before turning and heading due south. Shortly after changing direction, he had reduced forward motion of the Huey to almost a hover. I had left my seat in the cockpit and made my way to the main cargo area of the helicopter. Unfastening the lashing straps, which had secured the parachute pack to the eye of a cargo cleat, I had opened the pack, unfurling the chute as I had done so. Some of the suspension lines of the parachute had been cut, to give the impression that the chute might have failed – either on decent, or on landing. Moving over to the cargo door of the Huey, and sliding it open, I had thrown out the chute, watching it unfurl and spiral open as it had fallen down into the darkness, beneath me. The parachute and the body of Junior Technician N.F. W…had all been part of an elaborate cover up. If unsuccessful and captured, I would have become Junior Technician N.F. W…, who had fallen from a Hercules transport plane and parachuted to the ground – a story that hopefully would have held up with the Iraqis. However, if successful, then we would throw out the body of the real Junior Technician N.F. W…from the Huey, in roughly the same location that the parachute had been thrown out. The supposed incident of the British airman falling out of the Hercules would then be reported to the Iraqis…one way or another, there had needed to be a body for them to find – dead or alive. Getting back into the cockpit, Garry had pushed the cyclic stick away from him, pitching down the nose of the Huey and thrusting us forward, again. It had been the last phase of the old moon, a week before the new moon, and there had been precious little moon light to illuminate the landscape beneath us. However, the railroad had stood out as two distinct, bright parallel lines; running east to west, directly in front of us. Pulling back on the cyclic slightly and pushing down on the collective controls, Garry had brought the Huey into a steady hover, about a metre above the ground, immediately next to the railway track. Stepping out on to the skid of the Huey, I had jumped down on to the ground, bending at the knees to absorb the shock. Pulling back on the collective and pitching the nose of the Huey forward, Garry had lifted up from the hover, the wash of the rotor blades covering me in a blast of dust and stinging grit as he had powered off west, into the distance.
Autobiography of an Assassin:: The Family Page 27