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The Imam of the Cave

Page 5

by J Randall


  Rogers still couldn’t remember what he had done with the originals.

  CHAPTER 9: BAATH PARTY HEADQUARTERS, BAGHDAD

  THE GENERAL OFFICERS arrived within a few minutes of each other after being summoned to the Baath Party headquarters. The thirty-minute notice they had been given at 1 a.m. left barely enough time to get dressed and gather their bodyguards.

  They had been unaware of Saddam Hussein’s return to the capital, but they had not been notified of any of his movements since the last coup attempt.

  Staff cars and attending vehicles were required to park five hundred yards from the massive stone building, which served as an air raid shelter as well as party headquarters. Everyone knew it was Saddam’s phobia of car bombs that required the generals to use their legs to get near the building.

  The generals didn’t greet their fellow officers with more than a nod as they were allowed into the building. The anxiety they felt increased as they climbed up the hierarchy. Higher rank had its benefits, but the pressure to obtain results increased proportionately.

  They had to leave their side arms with a captain of Saddam’s personal guard. A second officer used a handheld metal detector, set at the most sensitive level, to physically check each man.

  The humiliation of being strip searched once was enough to teach each man to leave all metal objects at home or in his car before entering the building. Six months earlier a newly appointed brigadier general had refused to allow the guard to strip search him, feeling it was an insult to his rank. The dried blood from the pistol shot to his head wasn’t cleaned from the floor, but was left as a reminder that no one gained access to the sanctum of the Supreme Leader without first being cleared.

  Pacing reluctantly into the conference room, the generals silently thanked Allah for the air conditioning. Tiny beads of sweat had already begun to form as a result of their intense dread at being summoned and their black berets looked like wilted mushrooms.

  Months earlier, Saddam had an officer removed from the briefing room and shot after noticing a facial tic when the man answered a question, an indication to the Supreme Leader that he was lying.

  Gathered in the room, the men didn’t talk amongst themselves, but sat quietly, waiting for the one man in Iraq who had the power to pull them from their beds at any hour. Each recalled comments or remarks he had made in the past that could be interpreted as traitorous and prayed that the leader hadn’t gotten word.

  As they waited, with their hearts hammering away, they maintained the stalwart facade military training had given them. Members of Saddam’s personal guard, armed with AK-47s, watched the men sitting around the conference table, heightening the anxiety the generals felt.

  Their wait lasted fifteen minutes—an eternity for most of them—until a major arrived and announced that the Supreme Leader’s helicopter had landed. The officers jumped to their feet, removed their berets and stood behind their leather chairs, some gripping their chair’s back to steady their shaking legs, others feeling a fleeting inner peace, knowing that they couldn’t change the outcome of tonight’s events.

  “Gentlemen, the Supreme Leader,” the major announced, holding the door open for Saddam Hussein to parade into the conference room.

  Dressed in a green tweed sports coat with leather patches on the elbows and tan gabardine trousers, he appeared to have arrived from a country outing. Relief at not seeing him in uniform removed a small layer of dread from everyone’s heart.

  Glowering at the officers standing around the solid mahogany conference table, Saddam strode to the head chair and sat down.

  “Be seated…unless someone has something to confess,” he said with an ominous smile on his face.

  The generals couldn’t have taken their seats any more quickly if they had a gun pointed at their head. The scraping of the chairs’ legs on the gray tiled floor broke the ill omened silence.

  “I hope I didn’t inconvenience anyone by scheduling this meeting at such an early hour…or perhaps late for those who don’t keep reasonable hours.”

  Scrutinizing the men facing him, Saddam became quiet and listened as each of them professed being available to his bidding at any hour.

  “That pleases me, gentlemen. I cannot abide those who won’t give their loyalty to this great country of ours.”

  Being called gentlemen peeled away another layer of apprehension, though loyalty to the country was loyalty to Saddam Hussein.

  “I’ve been hearing rumors that make my sleep unpleasant lately. What can you tell me…,” he asked as his stare roamed over every man in the room before fixing on the Commander of the Republican Guard, Tawakalna Division, “General Nidal?”

  When General Nidal heard his name spoken by Saddam, he quickly dropped his right hand, which had been nervously stroking the bushy black mustache that covered his upper lip.

  The unfortunate man stood up and began the speech he had rehearsed on his way to the meeting. “Sir, in accordance with your guidance, we have overtly ignored the actions of the United Nations inspectors and have gone to great extremes to avoid contact at all costs…but…”

  The general paused, forcing his hands to remain steady at his sides and not reveal the distress that was threatening to manifest itself all too obviously.

  “But what, General?” Saddam asked with a slight rise in the volume of his voice.

  The general cleared his throat. “Sir, there has been…there has been another incident…”

  “What are you saying, General?” Saddam’s eyes narrowed as the general’s pause continued. “Do I have to pull it out of you as I would an infected tooth? Incident, you say…What incident and why wasn’t I told?”

  General Nidal realized that the speech he had rehearsed was going off in the wrong direction, but it was too late to change course and history would witness the results.

  “Sir, it appears that another one of the UN inspectors has vanished.”

  Seeing the Supreme Leader’s eyebrows rise, but getting no comment, the general took a deep breath and continued. “The chief of the UNSCOM inspectors reported it to the liaison office. We have no clues or indication of why or who’s behind the disappearances.” He displayed a barely perceptible smirk at the thought of another UN loss.

  “We…we have been providing updates to your son, Qusay, on our progress.”

  “General, you have done well to keep Qusay up-to-date. Do you remember the directive that the Baath Party issued three months ago?”

  “Uh…yes, sir…”

  “…Well? What did it say?”

  “It directed all agencies of the government to…to avoid contact with representatives of the United Nations Special Commission in Iraq.”

  Saddam’s lips twitched in a malevolent smile. “Is the military an agency of the government?”

  General Nidal worried that he was being led into a trap, but answered, “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell me, General, what did it say would happen if anyone violated the directive?”

  “Anyone caught violating the directive would…would immediately be removed from the agency he worked for.” General Nidal knew that immediate removal meant a firing squad.

  Saddam drew himself up and cast his eyes around the room. “As long as UNSCOM is in Iraq, we’ll be forced to sell our oil under their conditions. I want the UN out of Iraq as quickly as possible and the best way to accomplish that is by ignoring them. If they can find nothing to raise their interest, they will leave…

  “I hope everyone in this room agrees with me…

  “I don’t care if a few inspectors get lost—unless it’s connected to us. There are traitors who want UNSCOM to blame our government and remain in Iraq. I want those traitors caught and then buried…Have I made myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” said General Nidal. “We are doing everything within our means…everything we can…and I promise you we’ll catch them.”

  “Each and every one of you will do more,” barked Saddam. “I expect results or new genera
ls will fill these chairs and be given the opportunity to do better. If anyone disagrees with me, I’ll meet you in the courtyard.”

  The look on Saddam’s face froze the hearts of the men facing him.

  “Yes, sir,” said General Nidal, and the other officers nodded their heads in agreement without uttering a word.

  Saddam rose up imperiously from his chair. He regarded General Nidal for a long moment. “Keep my son appraised of your actions.” Then he stormed out of the room.

  As the generals departed the building, their relief at being granted another day to live afforded them a passing sense of joy.

  General Nidal paused on the top step, glanced at the fleeing figures hurrying to their staff cars then faced heaven and said a silent prayer of thanks to Allah.

  Tomorrow they would double their efforts to find and eliminate any traitors responsible for trying to keep the UN inspectors in Iraq.

  CHAPTER 10: BIG BLUE

  AT 8:40 IN THE EVENING of the day after he left New York Bill stepped out of the Royal Jordanian airliner from Frankfurt onto the portable ramp and took in a deep breath of unrecycled air.

  During the five-hour layover in Frankfurt and the flight to Jordan Bill had weighed some options for where to start, but finally discarded them. He had a gut feeling that time was running out. There was no evidence to indicate that the inspectors were still alive, but if they had been killed, why hadn’t their bodies turned up? The apathy of the Iraqi regime toward the UN mission raised serious doubts about their culpability.

  Making his way through the sea of people greeting his fellow passengers, he recognized the narrow blond headed face of Olaf Peterson.

  “How was the trip, Boss?”

  “It was good, Olaf, but what’s more important—how are you?”

  “I feel great. The medical team cleared me yesterday for normal duty. I asked if I could pick you up.”

  He nudged Bill toward the baggage claim area.

  “I’m glad you’re the one who came to pick me up. I have some ideas I want to kick around with you…How are we getting to Baghdad?—and please tell me something other than a jeep,” Bill said with mock seriousness.

  “Nothing but first class for the man in charge. I came in the helicopter. We have to make a fuel stop on the way. I should have you back at the compound no later than three a.m.”

  They collected Bill’s bag then displayed their diplomatic passports and were waved through customs. As they reached the flight line they could see the blur of the rotors already turning.

  The flight through the night passed over the occasional Bedouin campfire that sparkled six hundred feet below the helicopter. The larger camps and oases blinked like fireflies as the wind fanned the burning camel dung the Bedouins used for cooking.

  The bird landed a little before three. Before heading for his room and a little shut-eye, Bill asked Olaf to talk to the ten inspectors they had handpicked on the flight and have them meet him in the conference room at 0900 hours.

  * * *

  “Gentlemen, I have two reasons for asking you to be here. One, you all have military experience that may come in handy if you decide to stay with the group. Two, everyone in this room could put my worn-out body to shame when it comes to physical conditioning and endurance.”

  Robert Tilden, an ex-Marine known as ‘Big Bob’ to his co-workers because of his six foot, six inch stature commented, “Yeah, Bill, I bet I could even beat you in a 100 yard foot race if you give me a 50 yard head start.”

  Several of the men laughed at this and some shot a quick glance at the big, marble jawed man with short cropped, light brown hair. They could see the humor in his blue gray eyes, which were beginning to show crow’s feet at each corner.

  Bill raised his arms and motioned for the men to keep the chatter down. “ I have some serious things to tell you and there isn’t a lot of time left if my hunch is right.”

  Bill paused for emphasis. “I see how our inspectors were taken.”

  The room became very quiet and serious.

  “They were taken out with something that causes unconsciousness.”

  Colorful obscenities flew through the room at a furious pace, most directed at the Republican Guard.

  Bill raised his arms again. “Hold on a minute—let me finish before you rush out and start World War Three.”

  The room returned to a semblance of calm and he continued.

  “Whatever was used isn’t necessarily fatal. The adage, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, has some apparent truth to it. I’ve been exposed to it on at least eight occasions.

  “Some of you in this room have experienced symptoms attributed to it. Olaf, go ahead and tell them what happened to you.”

  The men knew that Olaf had spent time in the dispensary, but few were aware of the reason. Olaf recounted what happened to him at the weapons factory.

  A gleam of recognition came into the eyes of men realizing that they had had similar experiences but hadn’t reported them.

  “As you know,” said Bill, “I arrived back from New York this morning. At the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention I was jabbed and prodded and they took a quart of my blood. They’re testing it as we speak.

  “Unfortunately, we’ll all be retired before they come to any conclusions—or at least I will.” Some laughter greeted this remark.

  “One thing they believe is that when an individual comes into contact with remnants of whatever was used, the body builds up an immunity. The more contacts, the better the immunity.”

  Bill realized that he was taking liberties, but tried not to exaggerate what little he knew.

  “What I’m telling you is that it’s highly possible our missing men are alive. If anyone’s going to find them, it’ll have to be us. On the trip from Amman, I made a list of where I encountered it. If the site where you had contact isn’t on the list, we’ll add it.

  “What I propose is that, over the rest of today and tomorrow, everyone in this room revisit those areas. The more we’re able to build up our resistance, the less likely we will be harmed by direct contact.”

  Bill paused to give the men time to work out the pros and cons of what he said, expecting that they would convince each other it was the best plan.

  Lawrence Paisley held up his hand to ask a question.

  “Bill, how do you propose we do these visits?”

  Bill regarded the curly, auburn headed inspector, whose eyes seemed overly large for his small face. “That’s an easy one, Lawrence. We’ll load everyone onto the UN bus and head out. The Guards have no interest in us and the locals will hide indoors as soon as Big Blue drives up. If we’re going to get this done in a few days, I believe it’s the quickest way.”

  Bill asked everyone to meet in the motor pool at 1300 hours.

  * * *

  Big Blue joined the afternoon traffic and headed for the closest facility on the list where it was encountered. The bus rumbled and belched diesel fumes as it bounced over the pockmarked streets of Baghdad.

  The twelve men aboard laughed and displayed the camaraderie of young boys on a school outing.

  Bill hoped that their optimism and frivolity would last after their first encounter.

  At the first stop they watched Big Bob in sober amazement as he thudded onto his butt and sat on the ground with his head between his knees trying to uncloud his consciousness.

  Bob, who feared nothing, had jumped at the opportunity to be the first to ‘build up his immunity.’

  Three men helped him rise from the sand where he had collapsed. They held onto his powerful arms and directed him away, asking over and over if he was okay.

  A couple of minutes passed before Bob shook the men away. He took a quick breath of air into his lungs and shook his head. “Man, that was a rush. The last time I was knocked on my ass like that was smoking some bad Panama Red after we got Noriega.”

  Confident that Bob was okay, the remaining men submitted to the process. Some of them required mor
e time for their physical and mental processes to return to normal.

  Bill was the last man to submit and suffered surprisingly little effect.

  By the last stop of the day the men were becoming used to the experience and were showing less reluctance. Bill was reminded of the children he had watched many nights earlier playing their game of tag.

  On the way back, Bill advised the men that the UN didn’t sanction what they were undertaking. He asked that they keep the purpose of the outing to themselves and, if asked where they had been, to say that they were searching for leads on the missing inspectors.

  The lack of surprise on the faces of the men was not unexpected and verified that he had chosen the right men.

  He told them that Big Blue would be driving out of the motor pool at 0600 hours the following day and anyone not on the bus would be left behind.

  * * *

  As Big Blue exited the motor pool the next morning Bill opened the envelope given to him by the night duty officer.

  Much to his amazement, it was a photograph of a transporter entering some kind of shelter or cave in the desert. On the cover sheet were the coordinates.

  The activity of the day before overshadowed his visit to the States. If he had been asked when it was he visited New York, he would have had to think before he answered.

  As they made their rounds, the photograph kept seducing his interest and he frequently took it out of the envelope to examine it again.

  CHAPTER 11: THE MOSSAD

  THE MOSSAD—Mossad LeAliya Bet, otherwise known as the Institute for Intelligence and Special Services—began its life under the guidance of Prime Minister David Ben-Gurion. He realized that intelligence constituted the first line of defense against Israel’s enemies, who had kept it under siege since its establishment.

  The Mossad had done its job well in guarding the Jewish state over the years, experiencing many triumphs, as well as its share of failures. The assassination of Prime Minister Rabin had been considered a major failure of their mission and had resulted in the resignation of their director.

 

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