The Imam of the Cave

by J Randall

  The Mercedes cruised quietly along the highway toward Baghdad, dodging the occasional pothole that remained from the Gulf War.

  CHAPTER 38: BACK IN COUNTRY

  JET LAG USUALLY AFFECTED BILL as badly as it does any tourist who seldom flies internationally. His body had been starting to adjust to Eastern Daylight Time, but now its arrival back ‘home’ in Baghdad relieved it of the necessity.

  One of his inspectors had met him at the airport and chauffeured him to the BMVC compound in a UN sedan.

  As ever, Baghdad had fascinated Bill. With the sun down and a cool breeze off the Tigris, he had felt the city coming alive that Sunday night.

  The people who avoided the heat of the city during the day walked under the stars in droves…talking, laughing and forgetting their problems, if but for a brief time. The exotic smell of the lamb, beef and chicken kebabs floated through the air in the smoke of the charcoal fires.

  Back at the compound, and though it was pretty late, Bill went to visit Derrick Willy, but the dispensary was empty, so he checked in with the duty officer for messages.

  Everything was quiet and there were no messages. He had second thoughts about having left New York and wondered what Gloria was doing at that moment.

  But he knew that he was a creature of habit and would have come back in any case.

  He headed to his room.

  * * *

  Waking after five to the sounds of the muezzin giving the call to prayer from the minaret of a nearby mosque, Bill really knew he was back in Baghdad.

  He showered and shaved and went to the canteen. The first inspector he spotted was Robert Tilden, who never missed a meal unless he was out inspecting. His table was empty except for himself, but his plate was full.

  “Robert, how are you doing?”

  Bill sat down with his cup of coffee.

  Bob held his fork, heaped with home fries and smothered in egg yolk, suspended on the way to his mouth.

  “Bill? Someone told me you were in New York.”

  “I got back last night.”

  Bill surveyed the nearly empty room. “Robert, tell me something. Is today a holiday or am I wrong in my impression that the canteen has fewer people than usual?”

  “You’re right, Boss.”

  “Right about the holiday or fewer people?”

  “Both.”

  Bill shook his head and laughed. He knew it would go on like this until the big man cleaned his plate.

  Bill drank his coffee, quietly watching Robert stoke his enormous furnace of a stomach.

  Finally, the last piece of toast disappeared into the inspector’s mouth.

  “That was good. I wonder what they’re cooking for lunch.”

  Bill grinned. “Where is everyone?”

  “On holiday. Most of them went to Bahrain, but a few went to Europe to meet their wives.”

  At a loss but knowing that he would eventually get what he was seeking, Bill used a different tack. “Robert, why don’t you tell me what happened here while I was gone.”

  Bob pushed his tray to the side.

  “After you and Gloria flew out on that little jet, we got a message from the Executive Chairman. At first we thought it was a joke, but the duty officer said it was for real. It said to stop all inspections for the next coupla weeks. It authorized a two-week paid leave to the nonessential personnel.”

  Bob rubbed his jaw. “I never have figured that one out—if we ain’t essential, what are we doing here?”

  He made an empty gesture with his hands. “That’s about it. We ain’t been doing much since we got the message.”

  Bill was surprised that Bittermann hadn’t briefed him on this, especially since he had been adamant that Bill take some time off. Bittermann had assured him that everything in Baghdad would run just fine.

  And now Bill understood why.

  “Robert, now that you have a couple of weeks off, where are you planning to go?”

  Bob rubbed his stomach and stretched his arms out to the sides. “Bill, there’s nowhere I really wanna visit. I guess I’ll just hang around here until we get back to work.”

  He laid his big hands on the table. “Besides, you don’t get food like this for free when you go somewhere.”

  Bill chuckled at the big man’s down to earth attitude.

  “Robert, I may want to do a little snooping around Baghdad and I could use some company if you’re not too busy.”

  “Just give me the word.”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  Bill set his empty cup down and stood up. “Thanks, Robert.”

  “Sure, Boss. Anytime.”

  CHAPTER 39: LOCAL ARCHITECTURE

  THE NEXT MORNING Bill trotted from his room to the communications center. The echo of his quick footsteps followed him, exaggerating the sense of the compound’s being deserted.

  “Good morning, Chuck. Did you have a quiet night?”

  Charles ‘Chuck’ Finney was one of five duty officers at the BMVC, who worked a rotating twelve-hour shift, four days on, three days off.

  “Quiet, my ass. I don’t believe we have more than twenty people in the compound, but I would swear I can hear every time one of them farts. I see you got my message about the fax from New York.”

  He handed Bill a piece of paper.

  It was a message from Walter Terrance in New York. “I have received an update on our religious friend from our big-eared friend. Call me at the office.”

  Bill glanced at his watch. Eight in the morning in Baghdad made it midnight in New York, but he decided to try now, on the outside chance that Terrance was still at work. He dialed the secure telephone and listened to it ring.

  “Investigative Agency. Terrance.”

  “Mr. Terrance, Holden here. Looks like you’re burning the midnight oil.”

  “Thanks for calling. I received some interesting intelligence today from our friends at the National Security Agency. They’ve adjusted the filtering of data flowing into their Echelon computers at Menwith Hill.”

  Walter paused, but Bill made no comment.

  “As it was briefed to me, when certain words or combinations of words are intercepted, they’re forwarded to analysts for review. They have a particular interest in anything that pertains to religious clerics, Mecca, et cetera, et cetera.

  “Anyway, there have been numerous telephonic contacts between an individual in Saudi Arabia and mosques in Mecca and Baghdad.

  “It looks like a cave has been unearthed outside Mecca, where it’s alleged Muhammad received his visions. That explains where he was going when he left Iraq.”

  Bill wrinkled his brow. “They’re sure it was the same man?”

  “Oh, yeah, they have the technology. Anyway, all of the key words popped up in a conversation the man had with a mosque in Mecca on Sunday. He was warned not to proceed to Mecca but to get out of Saudi Arabia.”

  “Where was he when he called—did they tell you?”

  “He was in a town named Tayma, in the Najd region.”

  Walter cleared his throat. “The next day, he called from a mosque in Al Jawf, also in Saudi Arabia, to a mosque near Baghdad. The exchange was cryptic but there was some reference to the ‘cleric of the cave’ returning to Iraq. The caller asked them to organize a rest stop in the town of An Nukhayb.

  “It appears that the man you missed in the desert is returning to his mosque in Baghdad, if he’s not there already. It’s a Shiite holy site, the Mosque of Kazimayn.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Terrance. I’m acquainted with the mosque. It’s very beautiful…and can be threatening as well, it seems.”

  “I don’t need to tell you, but don’t take any chances and keep me posted.”

  “I will…Give Ms. Caruthers my regards when you see her.”

  Bill hung up the phone and sat there for a few moments, thinking about what he had just learned.

  He left the communications center as Chuck’s replacement arrived for the day shift. He waved at both men and walked to
his quarters to digest the news.

  He lay on his bed for an hour but became restless and went to look for Robert Tilden, whom he found in the recreation room watching a videotape on the big screen TV.

  “Whatcha watching, Robert?”

  “Some old movie.”

  “Robert, how would you like to go for a ride? I want to take in some tourist attractions and could use some company.”

  “Sure. Do I need to pack a gun?”

  Bill admired the young man’s perhaps unconscious savvy. “Not this time, Robert. Just doing a little recon, if you know what I mean.”

  Bill paused before leaving. “Oh, and Robert, we’re not wearing UN colors.”

  “All right by me, Boss. Ain’t been on a recon in a while. Want me to get a jeep?”

  “Already got one. Meet you in the motor pool in thirty minutes.”

  * * *

  Bill drove the nondescript brown jeep out the compound gate and headed toward the outskirts of Baghdad.

  “Where we headed?”

  “First I thought we’d visit a couple of facilities on the UN inspection list.”

  “Ain’t inspections been cancelled for a coupla weeks?”

  “Indeed they have, but I can’t think of a better way to see if we have company.” Bill glanced into the rearview mirror.

  Bob looked over his shoulder and focused on the empty street. “Looks okay to me.”

  Bill nodded.

  The numerous turns he took down alleys and small streets would cause anyone following to speed up.

  Finally satisfied that no one was behind them, he took a direct route toward the golden dome he could see in the distance.

  He crossed the Tigris and found a parking spot on a side street, close to the mosque without being conspicuous.

  They sat under the limited shade of a row of palm trees that extended down the street behind them for half a mile.

  Bill’s eyes wandered over the golden dome and its guard of four minarets. The intricate pattern of tiles on the mosque’s façade made a spectrum of colors that drew the eyes of first-time visitors like magnets. He thought the pattern signified something, but with no idea what he still enjoyed its warmth and beauty.

  He nodded toward it. “What do you think, Robert?”

  “The Kazimayn Mosque. Completed in the Nineteenth Century. Considered a holy shrine to the Shiites.”

  They sat a moment in silence gazing at the mosque.

  “What else can you tell me about this holy shrine?”

  “I’m afraid that’s it. I seen pictures of the famous mosques in Iraq but ain’t had a chance to visit any of ’em. The Republican Guard frowns on us wandering around their country. Is this mosque important?”

  “It may be.” Bill recounted what he’d learned from New York about the man on his way here.

  Bob looked at the mosque with renewed interest. The golden columns that stood in front of the main entrance invited the faithful to enter and be strong in their devotion.

  “I wanted to see the place for myself and appreciate his lair, so to speak.”

  “Like when you go deer hunting?”

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  “Are we gonna hunt the cleric?”

  Bill wasn’t sure how to answer that. “As they say in the Corps, you have to be prepared for every situation.”

  Having seen what he wanted, Bill started the jeep and headed back to the compound.

  CHAPTER 40: BONE COLOR

  AT 8:30 THURSDAY MORNING in his house in the suburbs Senior Lieutenant Hilal Zahedi sat down with his cousins in the living room and poured tea for them.

  “It was late when you arrived yesterday. I apologize for not being home to meet you. The military hasn’t kept regular hours since the war.”

  “No apology is necessary,” replied Medhat. “Shapira let us in and gave us tea and something to eat.”

  Nasif and Omed nodded.

  “I made an emergency landing at a base some distance from Baghdad and couldn’t return until this morning. The plane’s still sitting there, waiting to be repaired, but I was able to get a ride back on a supply truck.”

  “We’re happy you’re safe. When did you receive the message?”

  Hilal raised his cup. “On Monday. Cousin Mahmoud called me.

  “I’m afraid I haven’t been able to make any inquiries yet, but now that the plane’s grounded I’ll have some time off.”

  Nasif said, “My other sons will be staying with Mahmoud and should arrive in An Najaf today.”

  Hilal nodded. “Mahmoud said the tribe is searching for a cleric?”

  “That’s right,” replied Medhat. “He was last seen on Monday leaving Al Jawf. In all, three trucks and seven jeeps were driving toward the Iraqi border…He could be anywhere in the desert, but we believe he slipped into Iraq at the same border crossing we used. Two trucks crossed the border there late on Monday night. One of the drivers mentioned to the guard that they were returning to Baghdad. The other vehicles could be anywhere.”

  Hilal considered this. “I have a good friend at the At Taji air base who also flies observation planes. I’ll call him. Perhaps, if time allows, he can check the border sector. Can you describe the vehicles he should be looking for?”

  “As it was told to me,” said Medhat, “they’ve all been painted a light brown or tan and the jeeps are like what the military uses.”

  Medhat studied his tea for a moment. “He did mention something else, but it’s probably of no importance. He said the jeeps were originally bone color.”

  Hilal narrowed his eyes. “What did he mean by bone color?”

  Medhat laughed, not at the question but at the thought of Sattam with the ancient pistol when he came out of the house.

  “The cousin who used the term has spent most of his life in the desert as a goat herder. Those of our tribe who live far from cities tend to talk in a very direct manner. By bone color, he meant the color of bleached bones that you see in the desert—white.”

  Hilal smiled at the explanation.

  “Excuse me, I’ll phone my friend now.”

  Omed had sat quietly listening to his elders. “Do you think he can help us?”

  “He’ll do what he can,” said Nasif, “as will the others—not for us but for the tribe.”

  Hilal came back into the room. “I have a little good news. My friend’s scheduled for a mission today, not far from the Saudi border. He’s flying an observation plane with auxiliary fuel tanks and has agreed to make flyovers at places where it’s possible for cars and trucks to cross the border. He has to be careful when flying near the no-fly zone. If he crosses below the 32nd parallel he could be shot down.”

  Hilal grinned. “His plane has no military markings and he has memorized the routes from tracking smugglers on the border.”

  “That’s good news, but we wouldn’t want to place him in danger,” said Medhat.

  “His plane is small and old, but he is one of the best at cat and mouse with the fast movers. Too small for a meal, even for them.”

  Medhat glanced at Nasif and Omed. “We’ll go visit some of the bronze and pottery vendors in the city. Perhaps word of the cleric has reached Baghdad. It may be late, but we’ll return tonight.”

  The three visitors got up to leave.

  Hilal reached into a pocket of his trousers. “Here are the keys to my car. The dusty Ford parked behind your Mercedes. I don’t recommend driving with Saudi number plates. It could attract attention. I’ll park it in the garage where it’ll be safe. If I’m not here when you return, I’ll leave word with Shapira to let you in.”

  Alone, Hilal Zahedi finished his tea and replayed the conversation. If the jeeps were in the desert and not hidden under camouflage netting, his friend would find them.

  One thing nagged at him, but he couldn’t put his finger on why—the cousin’s description of the jeeps’ having been bone color.

  * * *

  The three men visited numerous shops dealing in
wares of bronze and pottery and drank many glasses of tea, but they heard nothing of the cleric. They realized how much of a closed society Iraq had become since the Gulf War. The shopkeepers were either ignorant of events outside the country or afraid to mention them.

  Late in the afternoon they visited the shop of a tribe member and were greeted warmly.

  “Medhat, Nasif, it has been too long since I’ve seen either of you. Come in—I’ll make some tea.”

  “Cousin,” replied Medhat, “it has indeed been too long since we’ve visited, but, please, no tea. I’m grateful for your offer but am afraid my bladder wouldn’t forgive me if I drank another glass.”

  The vendor went to the door and put the “Closed” sign in the window, then pulled the curtain. “You can’t be too careful.”

  Nasif nodded. “Tell us, have you heard anything?”

  Seeing the shopkeeper’s nervous glance at Omed, Nasif apologized. “Forgive me, this is my youngest son, Omed.”

  Relieved, he nodded to Omed then answered the question. “There’s talk, but no stranger will hear it. It’s rumored that the military have been poking around for traitors for weeks, but none have been found.”

  “But that isn’t unusual, is it?” Medhat asked.

  “No, they’re always looking for traitors, afraid someone will try to harm ‘the Great Leader.’” He shifted his gaze to the shop window to be sure he wasn’t being watched and spat on the floor.

  “Great Leader for his family and those who protect him. He does nothing for the people of the country except send them off to their death—or personally kill them. The useless war with Iran accomplished nothing. I lost a son who served in the Navy. Against the Americans, more of our sons were sacrificed.”

  Medhat laid a comforting hand on the man’s shoulder. “Cousin, as you’re aware, there’s no one you can depend on but the tribe.”

  “I know, but a man must be very careful with whom he talks and what he says.”

  “That’s true and it’s why we’ve come to you. You’re known in the tribe as a dependable man.”