Price For A Patriot

by F. Denis King

  “Okay, guys,” Willy boomed, “time to hit the road again. Did you wipe down the van Jerry?”

  “I never touched it without gloves. It’s clean.”

  “Good. Let’s transfer the trunks to the pickup and beat feet. Smitty says it’s a seventeen-hour drive to Killeen. We’ll drive in shifts and be there before sunup on Monday. Let’s roll.”

  30

  Ghost of Baghdad ’91-’94; Who To Blame

  Ancient streets, paths really, connected the shops owned by rug merchants, artisans and vendors of every stripe. Behind, and over these, were homes or hovels occupied by the less than well to do. It was a veritable rabbit’s warren of confusing, interconnecting streets without names or markings. Even residents could get lost in this place where Brandon Stiles found shelter. Fluent in Arabic, bearded and dressed like his neighbors, Brandon could hide in plain sight.

  On the 50th day after his escape, Brandon and his allies took their fight to the streets of Baghdad. A small bomb rigged in a car’s engine compartment was detonated on 52nd Street outside dreaded Al Haakimiya, a ten-story prison with only five levels above ground. Many Kurds and other political prisoners languished in its bowels. The explosion caused no injuries, but dozens of Iraqi soldiers and prison guards raced to the scene, followed by officials of the Seventh Directorate who jostled for a better view of the flaming engine, making the second bomb, located in the trunk, all the more devastating.

  The car’s driver and companion were more than a block away when the first bomb exploded. They looked back, as others did, at the pillar of fire and rising smoke, at the place where the car had been before the second explosion. The Kurds’ personal jihad had begun and their imam in this struggle was an American.

  Baghdad, Almost Three Years Later (12 August 1994)

  It had begun innocently enough. Two street vendors with push carts argued abusively in the Mansour District of Baghdad outside the offices of the General Intelligence Service. Two security officers in civilian clothes stepped outside the gate to mediate what seemed to be a territorial dispute. One vendor threw a rock at the other but missed his target. It sailed over the wall and glass shattered. Two additional security agents rushed outside to arrest the perpetrators. Loud bickering was bad enough, but breakage was intolerable.

  “All right, you two, break it up,” the lead Security Agent yelled as his men moved into position to make the arrest.

  “Now!” shouted one peddler as he pulled a revolver from a basket of flowers he was holding. Without hesitation, he fired twice, killing the men nearest him. The other vendor fired simultaneously and four members of GIS lay dead or dying. The shooters sprinted down the street and were fifty yards away before reinforcements poured from the heavily walled headquarters complex. The new arrivals stopped to survey the scene.

  “There they are!” someone yelled and pointed at the fleeing peddlers. But before a chase could be joined, the line of sight RF transmitter was activated. Both pushcarts, heavily laden with C-4 explosives, vaporized. A large section of the protective wall was reduced to rubble and damage was done to the offices located closest to Palestine Street. There was no pursuit.

  The Revolutionary Council was rife with rumor when it met the following day. Its members were nervous and tension was high. Saddam Hussein was furious when he received the report of the attack on the General Intelligence Service, and his anger had not abated. He entered the chamber without a word and took his seat. Council members quickly did the same.

  The point man, the briefing officer assigned, was a young lieutenant in the Internal Intelligence Service. He was the messenger rendering a report prepared by others. He had only learned of the attack an hour earlier. His briefing did not go well. Saddam’s frustration spilled forth and he angrily berated the lieutenant as an incompetent fool. The young officer stammered and trembled but made no excuses. He thought his death was imminent.

  Colonel Abu Salaman stood and addressed the Chairman. “Sir, if I may speak?”

  Saddam ended his tirade as if a needle had been lifted from a phonograph.

  Colonel Salaman, Chief of Internal Security, was the Director of the Intelligence Branch that had drafted the report. “Sir, Lieutenant Ashram is not privy to much of what you wish to know. With your permission, I will fill those gaps and answer questions if I am able.”

  Saddam raised his hand as a signal to proceed.

  “This attack bears a certain signature that we now recognize. We have analyzed attacks on the Republic that have occurred since November 1991, and in retrospect, we see a pattern. The attacks occurred once a month on different dates but after nineteen months the dates, the numbers, were repeated independent of the month. I confess my analysts weren’t looking for a pattern of dates and did not discover it until earlier this month. The attacks appeared to be at random because the cycle took so long to repeat. But once we recognized there was a pattern, we broke the code and knew of yesterday’s attack. Unfortunately we did not determine the target. Our forces were misdirected.”

  Saddam interrupted Salaman. “How did you know the attack would occur yesterday?”

  “The first in this long series of attacks occurred on November fifth, 1991, the second was on December thirteenth followed by the tenth of January and so on until we had an attack this year on July first. We broke the code we did not know to look for, and knew the next attack would occur on August twelfth. It did. The date corresponds to a letter in the alphabet and the nineteen letters of the cycle spell out, We will never forget Halabja (Em ji bir nakin Halabja). The targets of the Kurdish rebels have been varied and the methods of attack dissimilar, but we believed we saw a pattern of alternating hard targets with soft targets, but the soft target yesterday did not fit the pattern. We were deployed at chemical and petroleum facilities and at power generating plants, thinking they would strike there again. Even military convoys and troop trains took on extra protection but they chose to annoy us by striking a symbolic target.”

  “That’s very interesting Colonel Salaman, but we knew this was the work of Kurds. The question I have is, ‘why have you failed to find and kill them?’ They should be dead whether you knew the date they would attack or not.”

  Salaman swallowed. “It is rumored on the street and reported by agents of Mukhabarat, that a new leader, daring and resourceful, has emerged in the rebel ranks. The Kurds have become more effective and less penetrable. Their forces are organized into small independent cells. We kill a cell but it is like cutting off the tail of a worm. The head lives to grow another. We attribute this successful reorganization and effectiveness to one man, this new leader. The rebels have left their calling card at several of their latest targets. They call themselves the Ghosts of Baghdad.”

  “Do you believe these rebels are ghosts, Colonel Salaman?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good. Find and kill them! And the leader of these… ghosts, does he have a name?”

  “A nom de guerre, nothing more.”

  “Which is?”

  “Are. He is known as the Ghost, but also as the American.”

  “The American?”

  “Yes, sir, the American.”

  “CIA?”

  “We do not believe so. Based on information we have acquired of late, we believe he was brought here by our forces as a prisoner after the Desert War.”

  Officers around the table shared nervous glances and murmured in low voices.

  “Quiet!”

  Colonel Salaman knew he was treading on thin ice, but there was no retreat.

  Saddam was genuinely puzzled. “Do not speak to me in riddles. Your duty is to inform me, not to entertain me with word games. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir. We have reason to believe that the American is Sergeant Brandon Stiles, the American Special Forces soldier.”

  “I have heard that name.”

  “
Yes, sir, you have. He was in this room three years ago, in March of ‘91, a week after POWs were exchanged.”

  Saddam was quiet and Salaman bit his lip, waiting to see if he had overstepped his bounds.

  “Why do you think this? Nani’s son has not reported an escape. The soldier you speak of is working on his farm.”

  “Yes, sir, I am sure you are correct. My sources must be mistaken.”

  To an aide, Saddam said, “Get Hassan Rashid on the phone. We will quash this rumor before we conclude today’s briefing. Move on.”

  Lt. Ashram sank into his chair and closed his eyes as he quietly exhaled. The idea of being a briefing officer had once held immense appeal to the young officer. With the post, came bragging rights and the opportunity to be in the Great Man’s presence. He soon realized it was a frightening burden.

  The meeting droned on until an aide in the Republican Guard approached and whispered in Saddam’s ear. He held a cellular phone in his hand.

  “Wait outside!” the President ordered, and the officers of the Revolutionary Council quickly filed out of the room. He signaled Nani to stay. Only they and a bodyguard remained in the chamber when the heavy doors thudded closed.

  Colonel Rashid was flattered by Saddam’s call and hoped it would lead to greater celebrity. He knew he could serve the President more ably than either of Saddam’s sons, Odai or Qusai. Perhaps Saddam saw in him the potential his father disregarded. Hassan took the phone, all smiles.

  “Mister President, what an honor!”

  There was no friendly banter, no chitchat as expected.

  “Where is Brandon Stiles?”

  Colonel Hassan Rashid felt the blood drain from his face. How had he known? Did he? Perhaps it was an innocent inquiry? No, he wouldn’t waste his time. These were the thoughts that flooded his mind as he searched for the right thing to say. In desperation, he made a brilliant choice. He told the truth. Saddam was furious and threatened his demotion and a posting to Zakho near the Turkish border, but in the end he relented. He understood the embarrassment and Hassan’s attempt to go it alone. He would have done the same.

  “Your prisoner has become a thorn in our side, Hassan. We must capture or kill him before he becomes a hero, a mythical figure of rebellion against my authority. Do you have any leads to share with me?”

  “No, sir, this man is as elusive as his nom de guerre. He is a ghost. My men have pursued, searched, questioned, threatened and punished and still we have nothing. Perhaps he has fled to Kurdistan.”

  “That is doubtful. Yesterday, his group launched an attack on GIS in downtown Baghdad. Colonel Salaman credits him with this and thirty-three other attacks on our Republic since late 1991. Is that when Stiles escaped?”

  “Yes, sir, well, actually the twenty-eighth of September.”

  “The attacks grow bolder, and this is your fault, Hassan.” Chilling words. “You have embarrassed your father and cast discredit on your family name.”

  “Yes, sir, I am sorry.”

  Saddam’s anger was like a wave with crests and troughs. Colonel Rashid hoped the conversation would end as his anger ebbed, but it did not. With rising anger at the thought of his own embarrassment, Saddam ordered Hassan to prepare a report to be delivered at the next morning’s briefing. Without a fond farewell, he severed the call.

  “Unbelievable!” Saddam fumed as he slammed a fist on the table. “How is it such a fool comes from your loins, Nani?”

  “His brothers make me proud but Hassan makes me wonder. Perhaps my wife was unfaithful.”

  Saddam laughed. “I have sons like that too, my friend. It does make one wonder.”

  The guard was as still as furniture, pretending not to hear, not to notice, and not to care.

  Quietly, Saddam ordered, “Reconvene the council.”

  “Gentlemen, it appears Colonel Salaman is correct. The American, Brandon Stiles, has escaped. Colonel Hassan Rashid will render a report to the Council tomorrow. Colonel Salaman, you have brought this escape to my attention. It will now be your job to apprehend this ghost and bring him to me, dead or alive.”

  Hassan’s Report to the Council (14 August 1994)

  The morning briefing was tightly scheduled. Each presentation was to be succinct; embellishment, today, was not advisable.

  The Great Leader had scheduled Hassan to report on the American soldier, Brandon Stiles, at 10 a.m. All else was of minor import.

  Hassan addressed the Council saying, “As you are aware, I captured the American known as Special Forces Chief Master Sergeant Brandon Stiles after a battle at El Sharif. He and I were the lone survivors of that terrible encounter. Sadly, many of my men were killed by his treachery before I could subdue him. I lashed him to his own desert machine and brought him home to face the ultimate penalty. He was made to bow before our protector, our great leader, and you will recall how the President showed his generosity and compassion as well as his shrewdness in frustrating both the Americans and the Geneva Convention. He chose to give me the American as a reward for singular success in combat against our common enemy.

  “I held the American captive for eight months, during which time I used and tried to improve upon interrogation techniques used by Mukhabarat. The man knew nothing of military significance and it became clear to me that the techniques honed over many years by my father, Nani’ Abd Rashid Al Tikriti, could not be improved upon.”

  Hassan bowed slightly to the Director of IIS as a sign of respect and Nani’ beamed.

  “The American is not an officer privy to important matters. He is a functionary who serves to implement the directives of his superiors. I became that superior. He worked in my fields and as a houseboy, during which time his menial tasks became increasingly important to him. His fondest desire was to please me. Gentlemen, the man you now refer to as the Ghost was my footstool. Another servant of mine, however, a man who had passed the inspection of our esteemed Intelligence Service was actually a spy. He was my cook. I trusted him because Mukhabarat had found him to be pure, a man worthy of a position in the household of the family Rashid.”

  Hassan was on a roll, pointing the finger of blame, bending it away from himself and toward others in the room who began to squirm. He noticed a hint of fear on his father’s face. It was a thrilling sensation. His father had ignored him for most of his life, but he was not being ignored now. He thought, “What do you think now, father? Who wields the power now?”

  Hassan’s eyes scanned for nervous faces in the room. “This spy was cleared to work as a cook in my kitchen. He had access to poisons, and to the Rashid table. Wisely, I had others sample all prepared food as a precaution, but I wrongly assumed that a man with that clearance would be a model of Iraqi manhood.” He paused before delivering his punch line. “Since his defection with the American, my investigation has revealed that he is not what he alleged to be. Hosni Asaron, my cook, was born a Kurd, is a Kurd, and therefore is an enemy of the State.”

  Officers at the table spoke openly in shock and disapproval. The Chief of Internal Security, Colonel Salaman was shamed, and if he was to survive this indictment, he too needed a scapegoat. His thoughts were focused on that as Hassan pressed the attack.

  “This cook, this Kurd, drugged a guard and kidnapped my compliant houseboy. There was evidence of a struggle. Sergeant Stiles was bound and gagged before being spirited away by Hosni and others who came disguised as deliverymen bringing vegetables to my compound. We found a roll of tape at the scene of the struggle that we assume was the same tape used to bind the American. The guard at the gate was complacent and has been punished. Now, as you know, the American is credited with acts of violence against our great Republic. I believe he is but a front man for the real leader, Hosni Asaron, the Kurd. I knew that revelation of these facts would embarrass men in this room whom I respect, so I have quietly searched for Hosni and the American, knowing that you would also be sea
rching for the perpetrators even if you did not know these embarrassing details. I defer to the greater wisdom of our Great Leader and offer this information to you now.”

  Hassan scanned the room, daring rebuttal before he sat.

  Saddam rose to his feet and applauded Hassan, an act that spread like wildfire. Soon, Generals around the table stood as they clapped. Hassan beamed from his chair, thinking of promotion. The applause tapered and died. The room was silent until Saddam spoke.

  “Colonel Salaman, what do you say in response to these revelations that show an incredible laxity in the performance of your duty?”

  These were chilling words, prelude to being dragged away and shot. The Colonel had but one card to play, and were his life not at stake he would have saved it for another day.

  “The cook was given a background check during the tenure of my predecessor, but in his defense I will say this: Long before the Kurds showed their hatred for our beloved Motherland, when their desire for independence was merely talk in back alley cafes, the cook, then a boy named Hosni Fotian, worked for a loyal Iraqi family in the town of Baqubah. His parents were killed when a bus in which they were riding plunged down a mountainside in a storm. His employers, loyal Iraqi, raised the boy as Hosni Asaron. Birth records are not always accurate. In this case, the adoptive mother had birth records created saying that she gave birth to Hosni. She named a midwife, but when Mukhabarat checked, the midwife who could corroborate the unrecorded birth had died. Both parents are Sunni and staunch supporters of our Great Leader. There was no reason to doubt their claim.”