“Sir, I can’t do that.”
“Okay, would you do me a favor?”
“Sure.”
“Wrap a blanket around me.”
“Okay, I’ll try.”
“Wait, I’m not finished. First, soak the blanket in gasoline and then light it. Put me out of my misery. Please.”
She laughed. “Tell you what. I’ll push the recline button and you push the seatback forward. Let’s see if that works.”
“May you be blessed with many sons,” Daniel said solemnly.
“Not just yet, please. I’m single.”
Flight To Tel Aviv; Taxi to Amman (Friday, 17 June 1994)
“Purpose of visit?” the Customs Inspector asked.
“I’m going to Jordan.”
“Jordan? This is Israel.”
“I know.”
The official was suspicious. “Why didn’t you fly direct to Queen Alia International in Amman? Royal Jordanian Airlines has a daily nonstop, I’m sure.”
With a straight face, Daniel replied, “I didn’t think the Arabs knew how to fly. At least that’s what I learned from the Seven Day War.”
The Customs officer erupted in laughter, startling his companions at adjacent desks. Shared laughter followed as he repeated the joke in Hebrew. STAMP, STAMP—the passport was decorated and Daniel was admitted. He wasted no time finding transport to the West Bank. From there he would cross over the Jordan and proceed to Amman, the capitol and largest city of Jordan.
Bombings and roadside ambushes by misguided zealots were happening in Israel with increasing frequency, and buses were inviting targets. Daniel boarded his with some trepidation but noted that no one else seemed concerned. Citizens of the region accepted the risk with a philosophical shrug. Life is a struggle but one must keep living. Daniel was less philosophical but no less pleased that there were no bombs on his bus, and no problems on the road.
The drive east from the coast to a border crossing north of the Dead Sea passed quickly. He answered the questions at Customs differently this time saying he was visiting Jordan on business. Why had he not spent even one day in Israel? Because, he needed to hand deliver a package to a businessman in Tel Aviv. What was in the package? Court documents, legal documents. It was a lot of trouble, but necessary. The Customs Agent in truth couldn’t have cared less about the answer he received. He was bored and underpaid. He asked questions because it was expected of him, but he really didn’t give a damn. STAMP, STAMP. “Enjoy your visit. Next!”
The truth not shared with Customs in either country was why Daniel actually selected this circuitous route. Money. Smitty’s money. The price of the Tower Air flight was half the cost of a direct flight to Amman.
Daniel slid his arm through the shoulder strap of his carry-on luggage, and moved through Customs toward a nearby cabstand. As the door swung open, overly helpful hopefuls, taxi drivers, who would do anything to snag a fare, besieged him. While two cabbies argued over who had seen this Western passenger first, Daniel stepped into a third taxi whose door was open and engine running. The driver was nervous.
“You hurry!” he pleaded.
Daniel closed the door as the two losing drivers noticed their prize slip away. They cursed and banged their fists on the roof. Tires screeched as the old Toyota’s clutch engaged and the driver’s laughter filled the car. His eyes were alive with satisfaction at having pulled off this “highway robbery.”
“Where to, mister?”
“Amman. The Jordanian Arms Hotel, please, and congratulations on stealing a fare from those two fellows. They seemed a bit put off.”
“They all want a Westerner for the tips. You Americans are the best tippers.”
“Sounds like a setup to me. Americans forever more will be judged by my generosity or stinginess. I warn you, I’m not a wealthy man.”
“Compared to a poor Jordanian who supports a wife and six children, you are.”
“Aw, man! You’re breaking my heart. How many kids do you really have?”
“None, I’m a bachelor.” The driver howled, enjoying himself immensely.
Happy chap, Daniel mused, as he settled in his seat and briefly closed his eyes, exhausted. He awoke, startled by the driver’s announcement.
“Jordanian Arms!”
“That was quick.”
“Not really. You’ve been asleep for thirty minutes.”
“I have? Sorry. I must have jet lag. I haven’t been to a currency exchange to get Jordanian dinar; will you accept U.S. dollars?”
“Actually, I prefer them.”
“Then keep the change,” Daniel said as he exited the cab.
The driver smiled. “I can spot a good tipper every time. It’s my gift. May Allah protect you on your journey.” He waved and drove away laughing.
Jordanian Arms Hotel, Amman, Jordan (17 June 1994)
After a long, hot shower, Daniel felt refreshed. Fatigue and light-headedness had temporarily vanished. He checked the clock. It was a little after 8 p.m. He had just traveled ahead through eight time zones, and spent fourteen hours seated on planes. The very thought was tiresome. He was beat.
“Thank you, Lord,” he praised upon opening the small cabinet near his bed. Surprised and pleased that in a nation of tea-totalers, foreigners were allowed to imbibe. Decisions, decisions. He didn’t ponder long, before selecting a Jack Daniels, black label, from the well-stocked minibar. He drank it neat and pulled down the covers. The siren’s call of his bed with its pillowed softness and promise of sweet sleep was answered. He awoke twelve hours later at 9 a.m.
Pulling the door shut behind him, Daniel hurried to the lobby. The Concierge was helpful with directions, hours of operation and requirements. An appointment at the embassy, while recommended, wasn’t required, and, yes, he could visit on Saturday before noon. Daniel was famished, but decided to skip breakfast. He couldn’t risk a late arrival at the embassy.
The taxi driver inquired if he should wait. Daniel thought for a moment and answered in the affirmative. He had no idea if he would be politely interviewed for five minutes by a diplomat or grilled for an hour by an intelligence officer, but what he said was: “I shouldn’t be long.” The driver seemed to know differently. He raised the meter’s flag, tipped his seat back and pulled his cap down over his eyes.
Daniel stood outside the Embassy gate familiarizing himself with the general layout, then stepped forward to the guard shack and presented his passport. The whirr of the camera’s high speed motor and the rapid metallic click of the shutter were heard only by the two men who followed discretely in a van identified as a TV and small appliance repair truck. These photos, as well as pictures taken earlier at the Ben Gurion Airport, would soon be on their way to Washington, DC, by satellite, courtesy of the Mossad.
Mossad, a Hebrew word that translates into English as “Institute,” is officially known as the Institute for Intelligence and Special Tasks, headquartered in Tel Aviv. Comprised of eight departments, Mossad dispatched two members of the Collections Department, the section responsible for espionage operations, to follow and report on Daniel’s activities.
Before Daniel emerged from the Embassy, the CIA had created a folder complete with photos and laid it on the desk of the Assistant Director of Operations, John Keiley.
“Sir, the subject has identified himself as Daniel Stiles. He has a U.S. passport issued in that name. He flew from JFK to Tel Aviv. Crossed into the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan an hour later and went directly to a hotel in Amman. Why?”
“Because he was tired?” was the unexpected reply.
“Sir, I don’t mean why he went to a hotel. Why did he fly to Israel? There are convenient, daily flights to Amman from New York. His reasons for landing in Israel aren’t yet clear. We have prints taken from his hotel room where he raided the minibar, and are running a records sweep now.”
The Assistant Director interrupted the analyst, a skilled technician, by merely raising his hand.
“He is Daniel Stiles,” the Director said holding a photograph in his hand. “He recently resigned from the U.S. Army, a medic by training, a detective by circumstance.”
“How do you know this, sir?” The puzzled techy asked.
“I met with him just two weeks ago on a personal matter, and I …”
It was the Director who was now interrupted.
“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to pry into your personal affairs.”
“Not mine! His!” The Director shot back. “His brother is a POW or so he thinks.”
“Jesus,” the techy murmured. “If he’s been in Nam all these years, he must be sixty by now.”
The Director was silent but tilted his head one way and the other as if studying a curious object, then broke the spell by speaking slowly and with exaggerated patience. “Did I say anything about Vietnam? No. You did. You jumped to a conclusion didn’t you? You’re an analyst. You should know better.”
Chastised, the analyst lowered his chin to his chest and raised his eyes. “Okay, I give up.”
The Director laughed, and slapped his old friend from the seventh floor on the shoulder. “Wilson, Stiles claims his brother is a POW in Iraq. Our records would argue against that notion, but this guy has collected classified radio transmissions from the field on the day his brother disappeared that he contends prove he was captured.”
“Holy Mother. That was three or four years ago, and we haven’t heard a peep. It’s possible, but it has a low probability. How did he get the classified? You said he was a medic.”
“Don’t know. Don’t want to know. By rights, I should have confiscated, but didn’t.”
“You’re going soft, boss. What did you tell him?”
“Official mumbo jumbo. The government position is clear. There are no POWs in Iraq, and I’m not authorized to open that Pandora’s Box. Can’t go there. Case closed. But maybe, Wilson, just maybe, we should. Are we afraid of what we might find? Are we like one of those three monkeys?”
“The one that sees no evil?”
“Yeah, that one.”
Wilson frowned. “So what’s Daniel Stiles doing at the Iraq Embassy in Amman? Making accusations? Threatening to torch the place?”
“I’d like to be a fly on the wall. As you know, we have no other bugs there. In fact, we have few assets on the ground anywhere in the region. Without Mossad’s eyes and ears, we’d have zip, nada. But for some reason…”
“What?”
“I think Sergeant Major Brandon Stiles was taken prisoner. I know he was never listed as a POW, and maybe he died before he could be. But for some reason my gut tells me he is a POW, and, frankly, it makes me want to puke.”
Wilson Hedrow had been a CIA analyst and signals technician for over twenty years at Langley and he’d known Assistant Director John Keiley almost from day one. He had never seen nor heard him so conflicted before. “Can we assist?”
“Not much. I did let him keep his sheaf of ill-gotten radio intercepts, after I told him I would deny ever having seen them. I don’t think he understood I was doing him a favor. He’s naive. I told him to play it cagey, to keep it close to the vest, but my guess is he doesn’t have them anymore.”
“Why is that?”
“He said he had an appointment at DOD and he probably showed his hand the first time he was challenged for proof. But he’s not in jail, so maybe he’s getting smarter. Let’s monitor his movements and plan on a follow up session.” That was Wilson’s signal to leave and he did. He heard John call out his thanks as he closed the door on his way out. Wilson paused, pressing his back against the door. He exhaled audibly and shook his head once, pleased to leave those problems behind him as he headed for the elevator and the seventh floor.
“SECDEF is in conference, but I will advise him of your call Director Keiley,” the prim Miss Rita Richards answered. She had been C.K. McNamara’s private secretary for years, moving up the promotion ladder, with him every step of the way. She was intensely loyal. Knowing that, John didn’t risk offending and did not ask for “The Arrogant Lord,” a title secretly preferred by Pentagon regulars. To Miss Richards he had said, “Please have the Secretary call me. It’s a matter of some urgency.”
The Embassy Of Iraq In Jordan (9:45 a.m., 18 June 1994)
After a lengthy runaround, Daniel grew weary of the smug embassy clerk. “Are you an Iraqi?”
“Yes, of course. This is the Embassy of Iraq, is it not?”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought, but I had to ask because you could be from anywhere. There seems to be a common thread that runs through all government workers regardless of nationality that makes you indistinguishable. I ran into the same arrogance in the United States.”
“What are you saying?”
“That’s good. See? You asked a rhetorical question. You’re not looking for an answer. You know the answer. But it’s an opportunity to display your arrogance. That supercilious behavior, that practiced, sardonic smile, is endemic among civil servants. But what you forget, when you get right down to it, is you’re a ‘servant’ so please be civil and serve. Ring the bell, push the buzzer or pick up the goddamn phone, but get me an audience with the Ambassador. Now! Please.”
Before the clerk could respond to the verbal assault, someone across the hall loudly cleared his throat. It was a tall, distinguished and mustachioed man standing beside an open door. His hand’s sweeping gesture issued an invitation to enter his office which Daniel did. Once seated, Daniel asked, “Are you the Ambassador?”
“No.”
“Well, I’d like to speak to the Ambassador, please. It’s important.”
“I am the Internal Affairs Officer,” the well-mannered and manicured Arab said before finishing his sentence with “I am definitely the person you wish to address.”
Daniel regretted that the man’s title meant no more to him than it did. Maybe the Ambassador was the social representative and this man was the business rep. He looked too polished to be a spy, but maybe… his thoughts trailed off and he heard himself say, “Fine. I’ll get right to the point. Your country is holding my brother Sergeant Major Brandon Stiles prisoner illegally, and I want him released immediately.”
The dapper I.A. officer laughed richly. “You are an entertaining young man, Mister…”
“Stiles, Daniel Stiles.”
“Mister Daniel Stiles. I needed a good laugh. It has been a difficult morning. Thank you.”
Daniel felt like a little leaguer, playing ball with the big boys. He struggled for composure and self-confidence. “I’m quite serious, mister…”
“Forgive me. My name is Riad Maloof. I didn’t intend to belittle or demean your remarks. I am simply so surprised by them, and but for your demeanor, I would assume you are joking.”
“Why? Why would you think that?”
“The conflict between our countries was a bit one sided. Would you not agree? Bombs rained on our forces with unrelenting intensity and accuracy for five and a half weeks. One hundred thousand flights crossed our borders to destroy our ability to wage war. Imagine that, Mr. Stiles, one hundred thousand sorties. Is it any wonder that the greatest army in the Middle East was thoroughly demoralized and depleted? After having just concluded an eight-year war with the Iranians, we thought we understood war. But we did not. Not this kind of war. When the rain stopped, our ground forces were trampled by your land assault, and these were our battle-hardened warriors, not tatterdemalion conscripts. It lasted all of four days. Four days. Frankly, Mr. Stiles we could not have survived four more. We held only forty-five coalition prisoners, mostly airmen, when the Cease Fire was ordered. We exchanged them for over 95,000 of our soldiers. Why would we keep one soldier? We would not. Excuse me, Mister Stiles; it is laughable on the face of it. The last thin
g we want is to give the United States another reason to resume bombing our country. It is simply not worth it. Your brother is not worth the price we would pay.”
“Mr. Maloof, my brother, Sergeant Major Brandon Stiles, was taken prisoner by an Iraqi major, a son of a member of the Revolutionary Council. I assume he has the same last name as his father, but I confess to ignorance of your customs.”
Riad Maloof appraised the young man seated before him. He had been an Iraqi Intelligence Officer his entire adult life. His was the business of deception and he could spot it in others with unfailing accuracy. He knew Daniel was sincere but he assumed he was misguided and certainly mistaken.
“I am truly sorry, Mr. Stiles, that you have traveled all this distance for nothing. Your brother is not a POW; he is not a prisoner in any of our jails. If he were, I would know it.”
“I believe,” Daniel began, carefully choosing his words, “You are telling me the truth as you know it. But the facts have been hidden from you. Why? I hope you will want to know. I beg of you, Mr. Maloof, investigate my story. The major who captured my brother on the day of the Cease Fire took him north, strapped to the roll bar of an all terrain vehicle. We call it a dune buggy or an ATV. I am staying at the Royal Jordanian Arms, room 405, and I will wait there for your answer.”
“That is it? Mr. Stiles, there were hundreds of thousands of combatants, and you speak of one man.”
“Isn’t that enough, considering the captor is the son of one of your most influential citizens? How many of those can there be?”
A dry laugh, and the answer, “Many.”
“But how many held the rank of major and were stationed at a storage supply point at El Sharif? The depot exploded, soldiers died, but the major survived to take my brother north on the day of the Cease Fire. That’s pretty specific, I think.” Daniel waited for a reply and it came after short deliberation.
“I will see what I can learn, but keep in mind that was a long time ago. We may have no record of it.”
Price For A Patriot Page 7