“The phone is dead,” she whispered hysterically, “what shall we do?”
“These napkins go to the men seated in those seats,” Megan said emphatically as she pointed to the seat numbers written on each. “Make the delivery, but protect the anonymity of the couriers. Disguise your intent by stopping along the way to check on other passengers. While you’re gone, I’ll try the satphone again.”
Mick Roth, sitting alone in the last row of coach, unholstered his weapon, a Sig Sauer P229, 357-caliber semi automatic, and verified there was a round in the chamber. There was no doubt this time; he had heard a gun’s report, not once but three times. The sound was distinct but distant, unlike the first. The first shot, he was now certain, had blown out a window and initiated a chain of events intended to force an early landing. The second shots meant that the landing site was now being dictated to the crew. The questions that remain are how many gunmen are there, and where are they? This was a hijack with inside information planned well in advance. The thieves may or may not know my face, he considered, but they do know I’m on board. In time, they’ll come looking for me. Roth made the decision to wait. He would hide in plain sight and let them come. He would be ready.
From beneath the seat in front of him, the Secret Service Agent removed his luggage. Unlike most briefcases, his was designed to accommodate the compact Heckler and Koch MP5/10 submachine gun with a collapsible stock, and six thirty-round magazines that could be snapped together in pairs to provide sixty rounds on the weapon. The combination lock on the briefcase was unique. It provided security from accidental opening, but also activated an emergency homing beacon. Roth readied the weapon and placed it on the seat next to him, covering it with a blanket.
Ironically, the North American Air Defense Command keeps watch of the sky that canopies the continent from a shelter deep inside Cheyenne Mountain in the Front Range of the Rockies. Little of consequence in the sky or in space goes unnoticed. And when a satellite relayed an emergency signal from a Secret Service beacon, the NORAD Watch Commander sent a coded message to the Secret Service, a branch of the U.S. Treasury Department. The message identified Agent Mick Roth, and gave his latitude and longitude. As the transmitter moved, as this one was doing, a rough calculation of heading and ground speed was also given after several minutes of calculation. This confirmed a hijack warning just received from San Francisco AIRINC and forwarded by Global Air Industries. In Washington, a senior Secret Service Officer in the Command and Control Center set a reaction team in motion, saying, “They’ve got a jump on us; let’s move!”
20
Brandon’s Ally Is A Kurd
The key turned in the lock and the door creaked on its hinges. Two men were speaking. Brandon recognized Hosni’s voice but not the other. Once a day, Brandon received his ration of soup and bread in his room. This had been the routine since Omar’s death but it was too early for his daily ration. This was a break in the routine and Brandon was alert.
“Sergeant Stiles?” Hosni said in English. “This is Odai, Massoud’s assistant.” He pointed at Odai and Odai recognized this was an introduction. He lowered his head, not sure of how he should react to this prisoner who had killed his friend Omar. Hosni didn’t miss Omar, and Massoud had said that Omar had been warned, that the American killed to avoid being killed. Massoud had stopped short of saying Omar got what he deserved, but the thought was implied.
“I cannot waste time and Massoud may enter at any moment. I told you earlier, I am a friend. What I didn’t say is I am also an enemy. Not yours. Saddam dropped chemical bombs on the village of Halabjah in 1988. The poisonous gas killed thousands but the consequence was worse than that. Many villagers can no longer balance to walk. Others have sores that won’t heal, or lungs too weak to allow work. Newborns have come from the womb with missing limbs or are deformed in other ways. It is said the monster bombed his own people but we are not his people. The people of Halabjah are Kurds, as am I. This confession is my offering of good faith. The Colonel would not hesitate to kill me if he knew.”
“If what you tell me is true, I am deeply sorry, but why should I trust you?” Brandon said earnestly.
“Because you must trust me if I am to help you escape.”
“Escape? I’ve tried that, but this country is the size of California, and if there are any partisans, I didn’t meet any.”
“You have met one now. There are dissidents I assure you. Shiites, Kurds, Jews, Christians, Persians, even disaffected Sunni Moslems pray for Saddam’s death every day. We are not well organized because Saddam’s spies are everywhere but we exist. Massoud is no longer watchful, because he believes you are reformed. Your work in the fields has been steady. You have been a model prisoner since he administered that beating to you three months ago, but I believe you are living a lie. You are planning an escape. Do not. When the time is right, I will help you.”
“Why would you do that?”
“To upset the Colonel’s plans would be reason enough, but if we help you, maybe you will help us. We are not trained as soldiers. Perhaps you can find and destroy what the inspectors cannot.”
“Inspectors?”
“United Nations inspectors, as part of the cease-fire agreement, have been searching Iraq for atomic, biological, and chemical weapons.”
“They are?”
“Yes. They search for stockpiles of these, for the laboratories, and for assembly points. It’s farcical. Saddam’s intelligence operatives perform sleight of hand tricks moving whole laboratories overnight, constructing underground facilities, delaying, diverting, misguiding. Only limited access and the occasional discovery of non-ABC weapons are allowed. It is a joke. We want the weapons, like those dropped on our people, destroyed.”
“After the war, was there no uprising against Saddam?”
“The Shiites in the south attempted a rebellion in April but were beaten down. The Coalition Forces did not intervene. A no-fly zone was imposed to prevent Iraqi aircraft from bombing the people there, but helicopters were not restricted. Resistance in the south was dealt with harshly and resistance is minimal now. Many Shiites fled to Iran and Saudi Arabia. In the north the Kurds continued their rebellion alone. UN Coalition Forces imposed a northern no-fly zone but gave no other support. Both groups hoped for assistance from the world but it didn’t happen. Your CIA has provided a little money and some weapons, but… does that answer your question?”
Brandon nodded.
“Saddam sees plots everywhere, and doesn’t hesitate to execute innocents. The people fear him, as well they should. Fear enables him to stay in power. Your victorious President Bush quit too soon. He didn’t understand the ruthlessness of his adversary. Saddam does not abide by the Marquis de Queensbury rules of a civilized society and now he has won. He is still in power. Will he outlast Mr. Bush? We shall see. It’s time to go. Massoud is waiting. He will take you to the Colonel.”
As they walked, Hosni apologized to Odai saying he regretted having spoken in English but to relay the Colonel’s orders he had to. Odai smiled his understanding.
Massoud lounged against the kitchen wall. As the trio approached, he straightened and crushed his cigarette under foot. Odai was everything Omar was not. He was tall and slim with rounded shoulders and a weak chin. His eyes were small and deep-set shaded by bushy brows. It was as if he wore a disguise to hide his intelligence and gentle nature. Odai had been Omar’s friend, and sadly accepted the assignment to replace him as Massoud’s assistant.
“Move it! The Colonel is waiting. Pick up the pace.” Massoud strode ahead and his entourage followed.
Colonel Hassan Rashid was sitting in the shade of the trellis holding a folding fan. The August sun was unrelenting; the heat was oppressive. The Colonel snapped the fan closed and signaled with the flick of his wrist for Massoud to enter the courtyard. The table and small chairs Brandon had seen on his last visit had been removed. The Colonel sat
in the only chair, a rocker. Its tall back flared outward from its cupped seat like a peacock’s tail. It was built of interlocking branches and twigs, common materials, woven by skilled hands into something quite extraordinary. Pillows were stuffed and draped on the seat and back, hiding much of the artistry while making it as comfortable as it was functional. The Colonel himself wore loose fitting Egyptian spun-cotton clothing. The white shirt with billowing sleeves hung in generous folds below the dark, drawstring trousers that draped his body in casual elegance from waist to ankle. Sandals of European origin completed the picture of a man of leisure. He smiled broadly as if welcoming an old friend when Brandon was shoved into his presence.
“It is always a pleasure to see you Sergeant Stiles. Let us rekindle our friendship. Please forget that unpleasant episode with Omar. It is of no significance. Your work in the fields has been exemplary. The cotton buds have flowered and the petals have fallen to ground. The seed pot remains and the fibers within are growing and are thickening. In about a week, Sergeant, you will witness one of the miracles of Allah. The ball will split open and raw cotton will burst out to dry in the sun. Each dried fiber will collapse into a twisted ribbon and you will join the harvest. It is a time of celebration when the harvest is complete. You will enjoy it.” Then, pretending to have just noticed, the Colonel gushed with the sincerity of an “I love you” at closing time. “Oh, my goodness! Remove those wrist restraints immediately!”
Brandon, tight jawed, stood silently, staring at the Colonel as busy hands freed him. Odai and Massoud stood at Brandon’s side with the tangle of ropes in their hands. The Colonel waved them away.
“Aren’t you afraid to be alone with me, Colonel?”
The Colonel tilted his head and smiled wryly. “Why on earth should I fear you, Sergeant Stiles?”
“Because I could snap your scrawny neck like a pencil.”
“Perhaps not.” As quickly as he spoke, the Colonel pulled a tiny pistol from his baggy sleeve and pointed it at Brandon. “Do you recognize it? It is a .22 magnum built by an American firm, North American Arms. The long shell and hollow point make this a nasty little piece, quite capable of ruining your day, I assure you. This (he said as he waved the pistol side to side) is just one of many tricks I have up my sleeve.” An oily smile crossed his face. He holstered the weapon and clapped his hands once. A houseboy carrying a small chair hurried from the house to the shaded courtyard on this prearranged signal. Brandon acknowledged the offer to sit and eased into the small wicker chair as the houseboy raced back inside.
Without prelude, the Colonel said, “Five months have passed since you arrived in Baghdad. The war is over. The prisoners have gone home to their loved ones. Only you remain, and no one knows you’re missing. No one searches for you. No one prays that you’ll be found alive. No. You are dead and buried. Eulogized and now forgotten. You read the accounts of your burial printed in the Muleshoe and Bailey County Journal. I went to some small inconvenience to acquire a copy of that weekly newspaper so that you might know about the touching and tearful burial ceremony. That life is over. Now you serve at my pleasure, and each breath you take is a gift, because you can be of service to me.”
“Picking cotton?”
“As you know, Sergeant, my country’s primary export and source of revenue is oil, black gold, Texas tea.” He grinned as he drew out the words. “Sound familiar? I learned this from watching television. As you see, I am especially fond of your Beverly Hillbillies.”
“You have a lot in common.”
The Colonel, unsure of Brandon’s meaning, ignored him. “The coalition forces, including our two-faced brother Arabs, have cut our oil life line. We depend on the export of oil to buy food and medicine for our suffering people. Are you aware of this?”
“I’m aware of a load of manure when I get a whiff. Oil money built that Army of strutting cowards Saddam bragged about, and now he needs to buy new rifles to replace all the ones your valiant soldiers dropped in the sand in their haste to surrender. He needs new tanks to replace the ones that look like old barbecue grills. Oil money would not be used to buy food and medicine for the downtrodden. Don’t make me laugh, Colonel. Was it your intention to drop food to the Kurds in your compassionate food aid program up north? Did your Air Force make a clerical error and deliver mustard gas instead of mustard or was it something far worse? Was that just a tiny glitch in your loving program to care for the people of Iraq, or could that have been intentional genocide?”
The Colonel’s eyes narrowed and his face was harder than a woodpecker’s lips. Brandon knew he had hit home. “Oil money did help us build an army, that’s true, but we could not have done it without your help.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, the United States helped us build our forces. We were your secret pals. Officially, your country was neutral in our eight-year war with Iran, but you were more concerned about Islamic revolution than democracy. You feared an Islamic victory. You feared the loss of control of Middle East oil to Khomeini, and that would not do. So, please, do not be sanctimonious with me. As for the bombing of Halabjah, to which you refer, the people there are Kurds they speak an Indo-Iranian language not the Semitic language of the Arabs. They are not our people. They are rebels fighting to steal our land, to separate from the Republic as your Confederate States once tried to do. President Abraham Lincoln did not permit the rebels to succeed and neither will President Saddam Hussein. We fight those who war against our great Republic.”
“The children, the old men, the pregnant women, they were rebels threatening your great Republic?”
“Casualties of war, collateral damage…the unfortunate byproduct of their own tyranny. What can I tell you, Sergeant that you don’t already know? War is hell.”
Brandon nodded and quietly spoke. “No argument there, and my war is over. When will I be released?”
The Colonel interlocked his fingers and rested them in his lap as he composed his answer. “I will release you in five years, or ten, or perhaps in just a few months. The timing depends on you and how well you do your work.”
“My release depends on how well I pick cotton?”
“Not exactly. You will be working to give people respite from a life of drudgery. You will work to make others happy, to forget their cares. You will pave the way, not for your own escape, but to give others an escape from the harsh realities of their dismal lives. A noble venture would you not agree? That is all you must do.” The Colonel smiled.
“You want me to become a bartender? A standup comic? Be real. I can’t make people happy. Use Massoud. He’s lots of laughs, the perfect man for the job. Release me, and I promise to write. Pen pals, you and me… What do you say?” Brandon enjoyed pulling the Colonel’s chain. He knew the Colonel had a job in mind for him, but couldn’t imagine what it might be.
The Colonel ignored the ribbing. “Massoud does not have your contacts, your experience, your language skills or knowledge, Sergeant Stiles.”
“For what?”
“My father will smuggle oil through Jordan to the Gulf of Aqaba. He, and other powerful men, will ignore your embargo to supplement their personal income. I intend to supplement my income as well, and I would have my father’s blessing if I told him. He encourages initiative.”
“Then why don’t you tell him?”
“Because any profit would be his, or Saddam’s, and I would be left with table scraps,” was the colonel’s honest reply.
“Ah, yes, dear old dad. Generosity is not his strong suit,” Brandon joked.
“Not with me. He is most generous with his favorite son, Qusai. He and my older brother Ali are his favorites. They can do no wrong, but they are treacherous, and someday my father will regret his favoritism. I am his loyal son, but I am treated like a distant cousin. My father ignores me and my brothers laugh at me, but the last laugh will be mine. I will become more powerful than they. Money is pow
er, and I will have the wealth of Croesus.”
“Let me guess,” Brandon jibed. “You’re going to sell soap to the filthy, and you want me to recruit a sales pyramid.”
“Soap? Not soap, Sergeant, but the white powder you should be as familiar with. Think on a grand scale. Think about the Colombian drug lords who export cocaine to the U.S. and Europe. For their trouble they are handsomely rewarded. Can you believe several hundred billion dollars annually? Several hundred billion dollars.” The Colonel was animated as he repeated and emphasized each word of the sum. “I did not misspeak, Sergeant. It is an amazing amount of money. My father and brothers reap millions, not billions, in smuggled oil, and Saddam himself might net six billion, but this is fifty or sixty times six.”
Brandon thought he understood, but the idea was preposterous. His disbelief was apparent when he said, “I still don’t get it. I just don’t get it. Are you saying that you intend to replace the cartels, or become lord of the drug lords?”
The Colonel straightened. He lifted his chin to the left, and his lips hardened in resolve. It was an unconscious display of confidence, and arrogance. “I will start as a partner with the cartel, but in time, yes, I will as you say, become lord of the drug lords.”
Brandon’s poker face revealed nothing.
“What do you think?” The Colonel asked earnestly.
“I think you’re a genius.”
“Ah, the cynic speaks. That is the difference between us, Sergeant. You are a pessimist, defeated before you even begin. I am an optimist, but more, much more. As a Colonel of the Mukhabarat, I have the entire resources of the Iraqi Intelligence Service at my disposal. That, my dear Sergeant, is an important power base.”
“I thought this was a personal venture, not a state run operation.” Brandon parried.
“It is, but what is the harm in using my power base, my name and my position, to further my personal ambition? It would be foolish not to.”
Price For A Patriot Page 21