by J Randall
“I appreciate the offer. I also regret the misunderstanding, but my superiors wouldn’t be interested in such a minor incident.”
As Gloria and the inspectors drove away from the airfield, the helicopter followed in the air.
Bill didn’t think that Senior Lieutenant Zahedi would follow, but he would take no chances. He knew that the Iraqis couldn’t contact anyone by radio—one of his inspectors had disabled it before they left.
Zahedi and his observer fueled their plane then lifted off and headed for the Rasheed military air base outside Baghdad.
Ahmad questioned Zahedi about his talk with the infidels.
“Forget that this incident occurred!”
* * *
The Land Rover pulled into the motor pool after the long trip from the airfield. The exhilaration of securing the fuel for the helicopter had worn off quickly and everyone was exhausted.
The return trip had been uneventful, with the exception of their seeing the observation plane in the distance flying toward Baghdad.
The helicopter had kept them in sight until it reached the highway and passed Ar Rutbah. There the pilot had radioed the inspectors to inform them that fuel constraints wouldn’t allow the bird to follow them to Baghdad, but they would return after refueling.
When the Land Rover got to within an hour and a half of the city, the helicopter had returned and followed them in.
Bill ordered a meeting of all participants in the operations center before they went off for some much needed rest.
“First, I want to thank everyone here for the exceptional job you did today. I know we were successful thanks to Jerry Perry and his crew.
“Second, Gloria, you have again proved invaluable to the men working here at the BMVC. I thank you.” He made a slight bow in her direction.
A roar of approval arose from the tired inspectors.
“Those of you who were in the ground crew are unaware that we found the body of Billy Dumont,” Bill said somberly, causing the newly informed to groan in disbelief.
“Doc Winslow has the body in the dispensary. The UN has been notified and has a plane on the way to Baghdad to take him home.
“For security reasons I want to remind everyone in this room that what we accomplished today cannot—let me emphasize, will not—be discussed or even mentioned without my personal approval.”
The look on Bill’s face told everyone that he was serious.
CHAPTER 31: RAIN CHECK
FOLLOWING THE BRIEFING on their return to Baghdad, Bill and Gloria went to the communications center and contacted their respective supervisors in the UN.
The dialogue between Bill and Samuel Bittermann was cryptic, even though the phone used a scrambling device.
Bill hung up the phone and shifted his eyes to meet Gloria’s. “Are you anxious to get back to New York?”
“Oh…not particularly. I was sort of getting used to your company.”
Bill let it run through his mind for a moment before starting out of the communications center.
Gloria stood up and followed him.
When they reached the bottom of the steps, Bill stopped and faced her. “I said nothing about parting company—you won’t get rid of me that easily. Mr. Bittermann’s sending a Learjet tomorrow and our names are on the manifest.”
Gloria smiled. “I guess I’ll be expected to reciprocate for that glorious steak you had the cooks bring over after rescuing me from the desert?”
Bill looked at Gloria appraisingly. “I’ve been known to let a beautiful woman take advantage of me, especially after offering to buy me dinner…but we have a plane to catch at eight in the morning. And I have to check on Derrick Willy.”
Without further comment, Gloria let Bill walk her to her room. When they returned to New York, she hoped to distract him from his job.
* * *
A limousine picked Bill and Gloria up at La Guardia Airport at 4:30 p.m. on Saturday and took them to the UN building in Manhattan.
The meeting was held in the conference room of the Investigative Agency.
Samuel Bittermann, the Executive Chairman of the UN Special Commission, sat next to Walter Terrance at the head of the table.
“William, you and Ms. Caruthers have been quite busy. I guess we owe you a few days off.”
Bittermann eyed the Director of the UN Investigative Agency. “Don’t you agree, Walter?”
“I certainly do and I want to convey the thanks of the Secretary General. Finding the missing inspectors and bringing them back was quite an accomplishment. It’s unfortunate what happened to young Billy Dumont.”
Bittermann nodded. “William, have you told Ms. Caruthers what you found in the cave?”
Bill glanced at Gloria by way of apology. “No, sir. The team that accompanied me into the cave and Derrick Willy are the only ones who know what was in there and they have been sworn to secrecy.”
“William, if you would, tell Mr. Terrance and Ms. Caruthers what transpired and what your actions were.”
“Yes, sir. We gained entry ready for an armed assault, but we were surprised to be attacked only by a single Islamic cleric who stood no taller than five feet, five inches.”
Bill looked wistful. “I probably wouldn’t be here today if it wasn’t for the savvy men who accompanied me. The cleric knocked out the first two men and I’m somewhat embarrassed to say that I was one of them.”
Walter, who found this fascinating, fidgeted with his mustache. “Was he a martial arts expert?”
Bill shook his head. “He had the nerve agent. Fortunately for all of us, we had been exposed many times to its residue before encountering the real thing.”
Gloria and Walter sat on the edge of their seats, hearing Bill’s story for the first time.
He finished going over the details of the cleric’s death and the aftermath with the masons before unveiling the discovery of the boat and the missile.
Gloria was incredulous. “You found the missing nuke and the missing boat!”
“Yes. Mr. Bittermann had briefed me on them. How they ended up in the cave is anyone’s guess, but the means to confiscate them has been clarified—it was the nerve agent.”
The next question Walter asked was on Gloria’s mind also. “What are we going to do about the nuke?”
“Nothing needs to be done.” Bill told the rest of the story.
“Is there anything else?” Walter asked.
“I had a brief encounter with the cleric before he died.” Bill told them about the mysterious references the cleric had made.
Walter scrunched up his eyebrows. “What’s the prophecy of the medallion?”
“Sir, I’m afraid my understanding of Islam is limited.”
Bittermann picked up the ball. “My major concern now is the nerve agent. I don’t believe either of you is aware of the incident in Turkey—nine clerics were shot and killed by the Turkish police after going on a rampage with the nerve agent in the Grand Bazaar.”
“My God!” exclaimed Bill.
“It appears that the cleric didn’t have all of the canisters in his possession when he left the cave.”
Bittermann looked down at his notes. “I’ll brief Edward Rogers and he can inform the Secretary of State.
“Walter, please contact the Director of MI6 and inform him of the current situation.”
Gloria and Bill left the conference room after being thanked again and dismissed.
“Where are you staying, Bill?”
Gloria had wanted to ask him on the flight over but was reluctant to seem too obvious, so she decided to wait until the scheduled meeting was over.
“At the UN guesthouse.”
Gloria pursed her lips. “That doesn’t sound very comfortable.”
Bill shrugged.
Gloria tried again. “It seems that we have a few days off and…I do owe you a good meal. If it doesn’t sound too forward, I have an extra bedroom at my apartment.”
She sensed that she must seem to be plead
ing, but she continued anyway. “I’m not much of a cook but I can make one hell of a breakfast and my coffee’s not half bad.”
Bill touched her lips lightly with a finger. “Gloria, if you only knew how tempting your offer is…”
Her body trembled slightly from the touch. “Bill, I’m serious.”
“I believe you are serious.”
He took a breath. “But I’m flying back to Baghdad before the sun rises in the morning.”
“They said we had a few days off…I thought—”
Bill wrapped his arms around Gloria and kissed her lightly before she could finish the sentence.
“Gloria, there’s nothing in this world I would rather do than stay in New York and let you make me breakfast, but I have inspectors waiting at the compound in Baghdad.”
Gloria felt slighted by his refusal of her offer. She pulled her shoulders back but maintained body contact.
“You have the inspectors back, the nuke has been found, Mr. Terrance and Mr. Bittermann will be in consultation with your government and MI6 over the nerve agent—what’s so pressing that cannot be accomplished without the great Wild Bill Holden?” In her hurt she couldn’t avoid the sarcasm.
Bill pulled her back close to comfort her.
“Gloria, don’t ask me why. I couldn’t explain it, but I don’t believe that the UN inspectors have seen the last of the clerics or the missing nerve agent. You couldn’t have left Nigel to wander around the desert alone any easier than I can leave my team.”
With the edge of an index finger under her chin, he lifted her face and peered into her eyes.
“As I said before, there’s nothing I would rather do than…spend some quality time with you. When this is all over, I’ll return to New York. I sincerely hope that your offer will still be open.”
Gloria felt reassured. “The offer will be open until you return, but promise to make it sooner than later.”
She gave him a slow kiss to remind him what he was missing.
Reluctantly they broke their embrace.
Gloria left for home and Bill went to the communications center to contact the compound and give them his expected arrival time at the airport in Baghdad.
Thanks to Mr. Bittermann, he would return on the UN Learjet.
CHAPTER 32: THE COURTYARD
THE SUN HAD SET HOURS EARLIER and the buildings used by the Baath Party were as dark and silent as hastily dug graves.
The courtyard behind the Baath Party headquarters was shielded from view by a solid wall five meters high and more than a meter thick.
It encompassed a small dirt yard approximately forty meters square. The soil looked enriched, as if with red clay, but it would no longer sustain the abundant flora that once grew there.
After the Gulf War the courtyard ceased to be a refuge for party members to enjoy their noonday meals in the sunshine.
The blood from countless executions had long since soaked the soil red and smothered its grass and flowers.
The generals were ordered to follow Saddam Hussein, surrounded by his bodyguards, into the courtyard. Most strutted confidently, though some needed the support of their fellow officers to keep their trembling legs from failing them.
When they left the building and found themselves in the hideous enclosure, the stench that assaulted their nostrils was that of a butcher shop.
Near the far wall they saw the quiet, sagging figure of General Nidal, former Commander of the Republican Guard, Tawakalna Division. His arms were tied behind his back around a concrete post.
The general had been removed from the conference room twenty minutes earlier by the security force guarding the Supreme Leader.
Everyone knew that it could have been one of them and some of them said quiet prayers of thanks to Allah.
The Supreme Leader smiled at the generals in the audience and inclined his head toward the post. “General Nidal, can you hear me?”
General Nidal did not hear him. The shock of his impending death had thrown him into a comatose state.
“Hello, General, I asked you a question. Can you hear me?”
Smiling again at the audience watching this scene play out, Saddam stepped in front of the unfortunate man.
He grasped the general’s hair and lifted his slumped head off his chest until it was level with Saddam’s own.
Saddam moved his face to within a few inches of the general’s and studied the eyes for a flicker of recognition. Saddam could see a string of saliva hanging out of the right side of the General’s mouth and could smell the stink from the empty bladder that had wet the General’s uniform.
“I want to tell you, General, I’m not mad at you. If I were mad at you I’d have shot you in the conference room…No, I’m disappointed with you. I ask for results and all I get are excuses—stories about your soldiers chasing phantoms.”
Saddam shook the general’s head. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
If General Nidal understood who the man in front of him was or what he was saying, he gave no indication.
Saddam let go of the hair and the general’s head slumped back onto his chest.
The Supreme Leader paraded nearer his audience.
“I will tolerate a mistake once, when it isn’t your fault. But that’s the limit of my patience. I have been surrounded by incompetents in the past and their blood is what gives you your positions now.”
Saddam didn’t bother to nod toward the courtyard floor.
“Look about you—do you think that this courtyard is paved with the clay of the Tigris?”
He paused for effect.
“Your predecessors gave it this glorious color and you too will deepen its color if I’m not satisfied with your answers. You’ll bring me good news the next time we meet—either in the conference room or here.”
The generals nodded their heads in acknowledgment, afraid that their voices would betray their terror if they spoke.
Saddam peered over his shoulder at a major of his guard, his nephew, and pointed a finger at General Nidal.
The major marched over to the bound man, shoved a pistol against his head and fired in one practiced motion.
The generals left the building and trudged as quickly as their rubbery legs would carry them to their waiting cars.
Not a word was spoken as they drove away.
Each man would return home and treat his wife and children as though it were the last time he would see them.
And it might be.
CHAPTER 33: THE TRIBE
NASIF EL-HAFEZ closed and locked the door of his shop and headed for home and his midday meal. Nasif was a merchant like his father who had trained him, continuing the tradition that had existed for generations.
The business, situated in a bazaar in Medina, was successful and well known for its exceptional bronze and pottery, which were sold throughout the Middle East.
Nasif’s three sons had their father’s eye for craftsmanship and could discern original works from forgeries with some expertise. Most of the buying was left to them, while he preferred the interaction with customers in the shop.
When he arrived home, his youngest son, Omed, met him at the door. “Father, have you heard the news?”
Omed was twenty and the youngest of Nasif’s three sons. His thick black hair threatened to hide his ears and hung over the collar of his shirt, making his narrow face appear fuller. Nasif preferred for his son to keep a shorter hairstyle, but accepted the longer hair as a youthful folly.
Omed was always the first to share the news of anything he thought would be of interest to the family. Nasif attributed Omed’s store of hearsay to the friends he associated with.
“No, Omed, I have heard nothing today that I would consider news.”
But, loving Omed as all fathers did their youngest, he humored him. “What have I missed while working in the shop today?”
Nasif listened as he removed his loose robe—a black bisht he wore over the white cotton thob that hung down below his
knees—and folded it before placing it on a chair.
From the red and white patterned ghutra on his head he lifted his agal and set it on the robe. The agal was a black rope cord made from tightly woven goat hair and sheep’s wool.
He took off the ghutra and removed his tagiyah, a white cap, and set them with the other items. His hair was thick and still black, but starting to be invaded by the white of aging.
“Father, they have found the cave where Muhammad received his visions!”
“Don’t blaspheme, Omed.” Nasif gave his son a sharp glance then just as quickly softened the serious look in his eyes and relaxed their corner wrinkles.
“I’m not, Father. It’s true. It’s on the outskirts of Mecca. Our military are guarding the cave and the Ministry of Islamic Affairs went in today to authenticate it.”
“Where did you hear this nonsense, Omed? Have you been spending time at the café with your unemployed friends, when you should be studying?”
Omed felt the shame of a rebuke from his father. “No, Father, it’s true—everyone on the street’s talking about it and the cave has been the subject of numerous e-mails at the cybercafé.”
Nasif felt a little guilty at the harshness of his criticism. “We shall see. It’s time to eat. If there’s a cave, it has waited this long to show itself and will wait a little longer.”
“Yes, Father,” Omed replied, relieved that his father didn’t dismiss the news about the cave as a young man’s fabrication.
* * *
Nasif was still pondering his son’s comments as he unlocked his shop after the midday meal and rest.
At one time Muhammad’s Quraysh tribe were influential traders traversing the desert trade routes and Nasif’s family could trace its own roots to a branch of that tribe—the highly respected Hashim clan.
Like the other men descended from that branch, Nasif held a secret that was passed from father to eldest son as one generation replaced another. Someday Nasif would pass the secret on to Alam, his eldest son.
The bell above the shop door jingled. Nasif got up from the cushioned wooden chair in his small office and strolled to the display room to greet his customer.