Price For A Patriot

by F. Denis King

  Massoud was in rare spirits. “Hosni, yesterday was one of the best and most important days of the Colonel’s life. He was in a generous mood and promised to promote me. A little noise from a late delivery won’t change that, but thank you for your concern. I will ignore the farmer’s truck even if he makes a midnight racket.”

  At 11:35 p.m., the large produce truck arrived, preceded by the rattling sound of its diesel engine. It noisily backed-up to the rear door of the kitchen and its tailgate clanked on chains as it was lowered. Boxes, crates and bags of apples, tomatoes, lettuce and other fruits and vegetables were dragged from the truck. The Colonel had a dozen soldiers at his disposal and at least as many domestic servants on the house staff. Hosni kept busy in the kitchen cooking for their various shifts, but at this hour the kitchen was closed for cleaning. Only Massoud was on duty, sitting just outside Brandon’s door, but he had dozed off. Hosni approached him.

  “It seems unfair, Massoud, that you must sit in that uncomfortable chair while he sleeps in a soft bed.”

  Massoud jerked in surprise, startled by a voice that seemed to come from another world. “Oh, I do not mind,” he replied as he forced himself to appear alert. “It is my duty. I was just resting my eyes when you approached.”

  “You were checking your eyelids for leaks, Massoud?”

  Massoud was not amused. “I said, ‘I was just resting my eyes.’ I heard you coming, and knew who you were by the sound of your footsteps. Footfalls like fingerprints are unique and reveal your identity. Did you know that?”

  “I did not, but I do not doubt your ability. I always thought your talents were wasted here. And, oh, I almost forgot why I came. This bowl of lamb stew with boiled carrots and potatoes is for you. I’ve added the Colonel’s special seasoning without his permission, so please, say nothing. It is very expensive, but when you are in charge, you should eat as a Colonel. Do you not agree?”

  Massoud took the bowl and ate ravenously. Through sounds of approval he slurped his way to the bottom. Hosni was amazed. His two-bites-and-you’re-out recipe didn’t account for Massoud’s size and constitution, but a bowl full could knock out a horse. Massoud almost finished the bowl. Almost. He was just spoonfuls away, when his jaw went slack and the bowl emptied into his lap. He would not stir until dawn and perhaps not until shaken. Hosni removed the keys from Massoud’s belt and unlocked Brandon’s door.

  “Your carriage awaits,” Hosni said with an exaggerated bow.

  Brandon slipped into the hall, skirted Massoud’s sprawling form, and silently followed Hosni toward the kitchen where the pair scrambled aboard the truck as others chained the tailgate, pulled down the tarp, and drove away.

  Brandon had never revealed his mastery of Arabic to anyone since his capture, and didn’t now as he listened to others discuss his fate.

  “Why do we endanger ourselves for this man? What good is he to us? You cooked in the house of Rashid and had a chance to eavesdrop on state secrets. In time, when you gained his trust you could poison him. Now you are just another Kurd on the run and for what?”

  “Listen!” Hosni shouted, “This man fought our enemy and he has paid dearly. He would be dead tomorrow if we did not save him tonight. You should feel good about denying the Colonel that pleasure. You have stolen his prize.”

  The sound of a hand banging on the partition between cab and bed interrupted the exchange. The truck slowed as it approached the gate. The driver apologized to someone for his late delivery and offered a bag of mixed fruits by way of apology. There was no inspection, and the truck rumbled onto the road that paralleled the fence heading north. The occupants of the truck were silent for a minute longer and then erupted in self-congratulatory rhetoric before again questioning the wisdom of their rescue effort.

  “Hosni, you said the American could help us if we freed him, but we know that isn’t true. He will be hunted down. How can we hide a white-skinned man? The police, the IIS, army recruits and even the Republican Guard will be searching for him. There are too many eyes. Where can he hide?”

  Brandon had the same thought and listened for an answer.

  “He is tanned from working in the fields and he has grown a beard. We can dress him as a poor farmer, a mute. With a little dirt on his face, I guarantee he will pass.”

  “For how long? Even a mute answers when Mukhabarat asks the questions. We need to be rid of him. He is a danger.”

  “I disagree. He is a highly trained soldier, and he has agreed to help us in exchange for our help tonight. But…for the sake of unity, I will not oppose your judgment. If, as you say, we must be rid of him, then we must get him out of Iraq. The Jordanian and Syrian borders have the only legal crossing points, but they are heavily guarded. Since the war, the way to Kuwait is too dangerous, and the Saudi border is treacherous desert. That leaves Turkey or Iran and only Turkey is on friendly terms with America. I say we take him to the north and cross into Turkey.”

  “The Zagros Mountains are to the northeast and winter is approaching. He would not survive in the highlands once the snow begins to fall in late November.”

  “I agree, we must act before then or wait until March. The route I suggest would follow the Tigris toward Mosul and beyond toward Zakho. Time is not on our side. Heavy snow falls in that area too, but it is also less heavily patrolled. We should cross into Turkey northwest of Zakho near its border with Syria.”

  “Are you not forgetting D-24? The twenty-fourth Directorate is headquartered in Mosul, and they will be watching northern Iraq and Iraq Kurdistan, and there are collaborators among us Kurds. I believe you are putting us all in danger over this one man. We rescued him from Hassan Rashid and that is enough. We have a war to fight, a war for our very existence as Kurds, and you want us to expend our precious resources to save one stranger?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you are a fool,” countered another.

  “If he escapes Iraq, he can tell the world about our oppression. He could…” Hosni paused as he searched for the best word, and Brandon supplied it.

  “He could stay and fight with you as agreed; he could help organize cells of resistance and train your soldiers in guerilla warfare; he could show you how to derail trains or destroy military convoys; he could do the things you spoke to him about, Hosni, or have you forgotten Halabja?” Brandon’s words seemed to echo in the darkness. There was not a sound. The Kurds were dumbstruck until Hosni howled in delighted surprise. “I do not believe it! I have known this man for many months and no one suspected that he could speak and understand Arabic. What a wonderful trick. I would love to share this joke with the Colonel, but I think he will be in a foul mood when he discovers you are missing.”

  “You don’t know the half of it. Let me add to your mirth. Remember the South American drug dealer?”

  “Is that what he is? I never knew.”

  “That’s what the Colonel thinks he is, but he isn’t. He is a poor Indian peasant, a con-man, and the Colonel just forked over five million dollars to him.”

  Oohs and aahs, oaths of disbelief mixed with insane laughter, filled the truck to overflowing. Their joy was boundless and contagious. Brandon had not laughed in a long while, but listening to this unrestrained glee, he began to laugh and then guffaw. He had forgotten how good that could feel.

  “Let’s keep that our secret for a few days until the little Indian is safely back home, then one of you might want to write the Colonel a letter. While you’re at it, write his daddy! That would be fun too.”

  Laughter that had begun to ebb flooded the truck anew. Grown men held their sides as tears wet their cheeks. Sleeping cattle probably looked up as the laughter spilled down the empty road. They were miles from civilization, en route to a safe house in Baghdad. To a man, the Kurds were now delighted they had rescued this great American.

  “We will get you across the border. Do not worry.”

  “Than
k you, but I am not yet ready to go.”

  “What? You turn your face from freedom? Why?”

  “Hosni told you that I can help and he is right. There is much I can do. I will teach you how to fight. We shall not forget Halabja. Together we will punish Saddam for his sins.”

  A flashlight clicked on, its beam was angled at the speaker’s face.

  “My name is Jalil, you know Hosni, and that is Kahmal,” he said, pointing the beam of light at the third man. “You will be welcome in our homes. We pledge to protect you with our lives, but you need not do this. It is our fight; your home is far away. Be certain of your decision. I ask again, are you willing to sacrifice your freedom to stay and fight with us?”

  “My name is Sergeant Brandon Stiles, U.S. Special Forces, and yes, I am.”

  26

  NSA Intercepts Sep 91; DOD and CIA Notified

  “Sir, these are the intercepts we reported yesterday. There have been numerous calls placed from a house near Baghdad to two numbers in Bogota, from Bogota to Baghdad always to the same number, and Cali has been conferenced from Bogota on two of those calls. There was also one call placed to Zurich from the same satphone in Baghdad that made all the calls to Bogota. Here is the chronology.”

  “You said there was a reference made to a drug lord?”

  “Yes, sir, a Chibcha, whatever that is. There was a lot of confusing dialog. Probably code. We’re working on it.”

  “The DEA might be interested in hearing about that.”

  “Sir, one of the two contacts in Bogota is the DEA.”

  “What? Well, goddamn, get DEA to translate and fill in the blanks. ‘Iraq’ means DOD and CIA should be in the loop. Send transcripts. They can take it from there.”

  “Sir, as I said there were two contacts in Bogota. Calls to and from the second contact were scrambled. As you know, Iraq does not have an embassy or consulate in Colombia, but they do use a friendly embassy there just as we use the Polish Embassy in Baghdad. Calls to and from that number were placed on the 20th and there was one more scrambled call on the 21st. The chronology might suggest that all of these calls are somehow connected. That means DEA is knowingly or unknowingly communicating with the Saddam government. And one last thing, sir, we believe one of the communicators from Baghdad is Sergeant Brandon Stiles, U.S. Special Forces.”

  “That is interesting.”

  “More than you think sir. Our records list Sergeant Stiles as KIA, Iraq.”

  USDEA, Bogota (Later, same day)

  “D.E.A.” the operator answered, using the Spanish pronunciation.

  “Let me speak with Agent Parsons, please.”

  “Yes, sir, one moment, whom may I say is calling?”

  “NSA, on a secure line. Have Parsons scrambled.”

  “Parsons here. I’m secure, go ahead NSA.”

  “You had a recent call from Sergeant Stiles and you forwarded that call to Agent Ramirez. Do you recall?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Make that connection again, please.”

  “Yes, of course, standby,” Parsons answered nervously as he placed NSA on hold and made the connection. “Lordy, lordy, Ramirez, one of us must have botched up comm on a non secure line. I love you Eddie, but I hope it was you. Those boys at NSA have a long reach, and they’re on the line. Good luck amigo. Standby to scramble comm. Go ahead N-S-A.”

  “Agent Ramirez?”

  “Yes, this is Ramirez.”

  “Confirm you are secure.”

  “Confirmed. Go ahead.”

  “This is NSA Specialist Bob Hayes; you had a satphone connection to Iraq with a three way to include Cali recently. CIA and DOD are interested and request full particulars. It was cryptic and has a few people concerned. For now just answer a few questions.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Caller’s name?”

  “Brandon Stiles.”

  “How do you know Mister Stiles?”

  “Sergeant Stiles, actually. He worked with DEA when he was assigned in-country as an advisor.”

  “And you believe you spoke with that person?”

  “Yeah, sure, it was Brandon all right.”

  “Agent Ramirez, Sergeant Brandon Stiles was confirmed KIA, 28 February.”

  “What?”

  “Next question, who did you contact in Cali?”

  “Jose Esteban, he works at the airport as a cabin cleaner.”

  “Did you speak with anyone else?”

  “No.”

  “Did you speak locally with an Agent of Iraqi IIS?”

  “No. What’s that?”

  “Did you speak with an Agent of Mukhabarat or any Iraqi national?”

  “No. I know Jose met an Iraqi agent and drove with him from Cali to Bogota. Jose was to fly to Iraq to see Stiles, but I haven’t the foggiest idea of what they talked about.”

  “Prepare a report of your conversations, complete with explanations, in duplicate and transmit ASAP to CIA, Near East Desk and to DOD, SECDEF. That is all.”

  The line went dead, and Eddie was left with his thoughts. “Holy Mother, Brandon. What is going on, and what have you gotten me into? NSA thinks you were KIA? Why is that and why are you still in Iraq?”

  As ordered by the National Security Administration, Eddie Ramirez submitted a report that arrived simultaneously at the Department of Defense and at the Central Intelligence Agency seconds after Eddie pressed the “send” key.

  It read: “An American soldier, Sgt. Brandon Stiles, made a phone call by satellite from Iraq to me, Agent Edward R. Ramirez, DEA, in Bogota, Colombia. Speaking exclusively in Spanish, Sgt. Stiles requested that I arrange a return call from Jose Esteban, an airport worker in Cali with a low-level drug connection.

  Stiles is a friend who once saved my life. I did as I was asked. I made contact with Esteban and then set up a three-way connection. I monitored the conversation and heard Stiles request pocket money and impressive clothing for Jose, and an offshore account for himself. Stiles reminded Esteban of a promise he had made and told him Iraqi agents would provide a passport and travel to Iraq under the name Jose Escobedo.

  I knew something big was going down but knew not to intervene. In my business, being nosy gets people killed. Brandon was not himself. By that I don’t mean he was someone other than Brandon, but he was evasive, and all business. I knew he had a reason, and I wasn’t about to blow his cover. Brandon would tell me what was going down when it was safe to do so.

  Esteban got what he needed, pocket money, good clothes, an account number in Brandon’s name and a phone number for a bank in Barbados. I witnessed the meet between Esteban and the Iraqi at the Cali Inter-Continental Hotel on Monday, September 23rd. I lost them in traffic, but knew Esteban would be taken to Bogota and would leave Colombia for Iraq from there.

  As a point of interest, the conversations I had with Brandon were always in the local Spanish dialect. They were brief, instructional, and urgent in tone. About a week after the first call, and after Esteban would have arrived in Iraq, I received another call asking me to check on a deposit. Five million dollars had been deposited to the Barbados account I had set up in Brandon’s name. When Esteban, a.k.a. Escobedo, returned to Colombia, Customs notified me. I had him under surveillance, and he was neither met nor followed. He returned to his normal duties at the airport the following day.

  I flagged him down on a deserted road as he drove home after his shift, and did a quick debrief. He said Stiles ran the show in Iraq, choreographed every move, told him what to say and how to say it. He never knew what was going on and according to Jose, neither did his host, an Iraqi Colonel. Jose and Brandon used Cali slang to keep the Colonel confused. Sergeant Stiles led the colonel to believe that Jose was Pablo Escobar’s lieutenant, number-two man in the Medellin Cartel. Jose was never sure what was going on but Stiles seemed pleased as did th
e Colonel so he assumed they had struck a deal of some kind and money changed hands. It was in his words, ‘movie acting.’ It was confusing but he assumed it went well.

  Sergeant Stiles promised Jose money and a clean record.

  I have had no further contact with Esteban since returning the audiotape that Brandon promised to erase if Jose was successful in Iraq. Jose is now well known by the Agency and may become an asset to us in the future.

  The name, account number, and phone number of the bank in Barbados and the phone number in Iraq are included as attachment 1.”

  Edward R. Ramirez, Special Agent, USDEA, Bogota.

  The time and date of receipt of Eddie’s report were stamped on the cover page: 1632, 28 Sep 1991.

  At CIA, the receiving technician read the report and stamped it “Unclassified” and routed it to the Near-East Desk where with that classification it received low-level attention as well. It was filed away without comment or investigation. Proper nouns (i.e. names and places) were automatically scanned and entered into a database. The report could be recalled if the exact cross-reference data was entered. Other than that, no action was taken, and Assistant Director for Operations, John Keiley was never advised. At DOD, the report’s reference to Sergeant Brandon Stiles automatically triggered a records search. The report was added to Brandon’s Personnel Record where a bright or inquisitive Civil Servant noticed a peculiar discrepancy. A dead man was making phone calls. The file was red flagged and forwarded to the Office of the Assistant Secretary of Defense Norman Wilder. Wilder was a short timer, a lame duck, with personal matters filling his agenda. He had a lot to do before retirement, and no time to open a file that landed in his in-basket just before five. Happy Hour at Bardo Rodeo, an upscale brewpub in Arlington, Virginia, took precedence. Norman Wilder had made the three and a half mile drive to the pub countless times and knew he could be there eleven minutes after leaving the parking lot, and time was wasting. He initialed receipt and tossed the Stiles folder unopened into his out-basket, certain that someone else would investigate the red flag before returning it to the Records Section.