by J Randall
“Come with me!” Mustafa grabbed the man by the arm and pulled him to his feet.
They moved as a pair to the mosque’s entrance and peered out. The courier pointed to the white Land Cruiser parked across the street.
Its driver was staring back at the wide-eyed cleric and the motorcycle rider.
Mustafa let go of the rider’s arm, stepped back into the sanctuary and rushed to find the Imam.
He burst into the library, but waited to be invited to speak.
“What is it, Mustafa?” The Imam didn’t lift his eyes from the Qur’an.
“I don’t mean to disturb you, but it’s William Holden—he’s here at the mosque.”
The Imam jumped as though he had been stung by a wasp. “What did you say?”
“Imam, William Holden from the blue hats is here at the mosque. He’s parked across the street in one of the white motor vehicles with the blue lettering.”
The Imam stood without saying a word and followed Mustafa to the front of the mosque.
The young cleric stayed in the shadow of the doors as the Imam stepped outside.
When Bill Holden had watched the motorcycle rider and the cleric peeking out from the entrance a few minutes earlier, he saw the astonishment on the face of the young religious man.
He recognized him as a cleric by his dark robe, his beard and his white turban. This seemed to confirm that the clerics were having the compound watched and that they knew who he was.
He had sat in the Toyota, fighting the urge to follow them as they walked back into the mosque.
Bill’s hatred for what they did to his inspectors was building, but this was neither the place nor the time to let his rage explode.
As he twisted his key in the ignition to leave, an older cleric, dressed like the younger one, came outside the building.
The dark look on the cleric’s face told Bill that this was the imam. Hidden behind the man’s piercing black eyes was a portentous storm waiting to strike.
For a moment Bill regretted not having brought a weapon—he would have shot and killed the man and to hell with the consequences.
The Imam glared at the infidel and could see, in the eyes focused on him, the same hatred that he himself felt.
At the same moment that he turned to go back into the mosque Bill pulled away from the curb and drove off.
Back in the library, Mustafa could see by the way the Imam thumbed through the Qur’an that he was still shaken over the encounter. “Was he the man you wanted us to observe?”
For several minutes the Imam sat quietly on his hard wooden chair as Mustafa stood in front of him waiting for his religious leader’s answer.
Finally the Imam raised an arm and wiped the sweat off his brow with the sleeve of his robe. “Yes, brother, he was the man responsible for the destruction of the false cave.”
“He has insulted the mosque and Islam by his audacity in coming here as he did.”
The Imam closed the holy book, took a breath to regain his composure then stared chillingly at Mustafa.
“He has done neither. He is an infidel and, though his ignorance does not excuse his actions, he was waiting for me—not as an imam, but as a man. The infidel William Holden and I had never met. Yet, he understands that I’m responsible for the deaths and injuries that have affected his kind.
“What we have done was for Islam and it is a just cause, as we serve Allah.
“But he, being an infidel, has no faith. He wants retribution for his inspectors. And that makes him a very dangerous man.
“Continue watching the hotel and keep me informed.”
Mustafa hesitated. “May I ask you a question, Imam?”
“Yes, brother, what is it?”
“…Do you…do you hate him?”
“I hate his ignorance and the ignorance of all infidels. They deny the teachings of Muhammad and won’t open their eyes to Islam. They are the victims of closed hearts and minds.”
“Do you…fear him?”
“Fear?…I fear no man who walks on this earth but myself.” The Imam’s dark eyes smoldered with disciplined conviction.
“As Allah’s vassal, I fear I may not be worthy to understand his guidance and do his bidding, but that is something I strive for every hour of every day.”
CHAPTER 43: CONTACT
THE DRIVE BACK TO THE COMPOUND gave Bill the time he needed to calm down. In the back of his mind he had been hoping to see the man who had harmed his inspectors, but he was surprised when it happened.
Parking in front of the cleric’s sanctuary had been tantamount to slapping the man across the face with a glove. Further forays into the city would have to be made with caution.
Bill changed into a sweat suit and went to the gym. The drive back may have given him sufficient time to put the encounter into mental perspective, but the tension in his body required a physical workout.
Running on the treadmill brought the sweat out on his forehead, and his T-shirt dampened under the arms.
He heard the gym door open and glanced over his shoulder to see Robert Tilden entering.
“Hi, Bill. I see you’re working up a pretty good sweat.”
“If I don’t, Robert, all of those young inspectors will start calling me the old man behind my back.”
“A couple of them do say that. But the rest of us still call you Wild Bill.”
Bill laughed and slowed his pace to a walk. He used the towel around his neck to wipe the sweat off his face.
He stepped off the treadmill and watched the big man do bench presses on the Nautilus. Seeing the amount of weight Bob was lifting gave Bill a hernia in his imagination.
“You look like you’ve been lifting weights for years. I guess you really enjoy it.”
“Hell no, I hate it!” Bob held the stack of weights motionless for a moment.
“But I like to eat. I can’t run worth a shit and I don’t like sitting in a sauna with a bunch of naked, sweaty guys, so I had to find something to take off the fat. Shit, as much as I eat, if I didn’t do something, you’d need a forklift to get me in and outta bed.” He lowered the weights then continued to raise and lower them.
Bill wasn’t sure whether or not Bob was making a joke. He decided not to ask.
The intercom speaker on the wall announced a phone call for Mr. Holden at the communications center.
Bill glanced up at the wall clock and saw it was almost 1600 hours. “Got to go, Robert. See you later.”
The duty officer in the communications center was talking on the phone. He continued talking and pointed to another phone with its receiver off the cradle.
Bill picked it up. “Holden.”
“Mr. Holden, this is Senior Lieutenant Zahedi. We met in the desert at an abandoned airstrip a week ago.”
Bill recognized the voice. “Ah, yes, Lieutenant, what can I do for you?” Bill’s mind raced, trying to recall everything he could about the meeting.
“I’m not sure how I should say this.”
“The best way’s to go to the meat of the matter then you can chew a little at a time before you have to digest it.”
Zahedi paused a moment, not quite sure he understood that. “You mean…get to the point, then we can discuss it?”
“Correct, Lieutenant. What can I do for you?”
“First, I must tell you this has nothing to do with the military. It’s a private matter.”
“I figured that, since the Republican Guard have done everything in their power to avoid contact with us.”
“Right. Those are the standing orders. If they knew I was talking to you…well, I would be attending my own funeral tomorrow.”
“I’m a patient man, Lieutenant, but I need to hear why you’ve contacted me or this will end in thirty seconds.”
“It has to do with your missing inspectors. I have heard rumors and may be able to tell you something about the people who took them.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“It’s rumored
that a cleric was responsible. He made a trip to Saudi Arabia using your inspectors’ jeeps. He’s thought to have returned to Iraq.”
“I hear what you’re saying, but what’s your interest in this? Why would a pilot in the Iraqi Air Force care? A few less UN inspectors should make you happy.”
“Mr. Holden, the tribe I belong to believes that the cleric is in possession of an ancient medallion belonging to the tribe. It was given to the tribe for helping Muhammad at the time of his Hegira to Medina.”
“I’m not a Muslim, but I know a bit about Middle Eastern history. How does this pertain to me?”
“The cleric we’re searching for may have something that doesn’t belong to him and also pose a threat to you and your men. I propose that we work together for our mutual benefit. Not a political matter but a matter of honor.”
Bill made a decision. “What if I told you that I know where the cleric is and our eyes fought a duel today?”
The lieutenant’s exhalation was audible over the line. “I wouldn’t be surprised. But, as you said before, you aren’t Muslim. And you don’t have the license to travel freely as one. I, or I should say the tribe I belong to, can help you. You want the cleric who was behind what happened to your men and we want what is rightfully ours.”
Bill didn’t hesitate. “You can’t come to the compound—we’re being watched. Is there somewhere we can meet tomorrow without creating suspicion?…I’m not saying we have an agreement, but I prefer looking into a man’s eyes when I talk to him.”
“No safer place than my house. If it’s agreeable, give me a time and I’ll give you directions.”
“Eleven tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll be waiting with three other tribe members. They came here from Saudi Arabia…Do you know the road that goes to the Saddam International Airport?”
“I can picture it.”
“The road to the airport is an exit off Al Junub Street. Continue past the airport exit on Al Junub then turn left on the third street. I live in the fifth house on the right. There’ll be a Mercedes parked in front with Saudi number plates…
“Mr. Holden, my talking to you puts my life and that of my guests in your hands.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Lieutenant Zahedi. This is a matter of honor for both of us and my life may be in your hands.” Bill hung up the phone and went to look for Robert Tilden.
CHAPTER 44: “THE ENEMY OF MY ENEMY IS MY FRIEND”
–ARAB PROVERB
AT NINE ON SUNDAY MORNING a white Nissan with blue UN letters stopped briefly at the compound’s metal security gates and drove out onto the street. It quickly mingled with the morning traffic and sped toward central Baghdad.
The driver of a motorcycle parked two hundred feet from the gate was startled by the Nissan’s sudden appearance. He kick started his engine and raced down the road to catch up.
Thirty minutes later, a white UN Toyota came to a stop at the gates. The driver waited until a line of trucks began crossing in front of the compound, then accelerated quickly and lurched between two of them, narrowly avoiding an accident. He heard the drivers’ displeasure through their air horns.
A second motorcycle parked farther down the road pulled behind the last truck and followed the Toyota.
Bill had watched the two decoys drive out of the compound and taken notice of the people following them. He scanned the road in both directions and concluded that those two were the only people observing the compound.
He adjusted his robe and kaffiyeh and started the engine of his unmarked brown jeep. He accelerated slowly, mixing with the civilian traffic on the road.
Checking the rearview mirror, he couldn’t detect a follower, if there was one. He had an hour before he would meet with Lieutenant Zahedi, which would give him enough time to learn whether or not he was being tracked.
Bill turned left off Al Junub, confident he wasn’t being followed through the streets of Baghdad. Beyond the center of the city, the road seemed deserted, devoid of traffic.
The feathery fronds of date palms along the residential street provided little shade for the few cars parked in front of the dwellings.
In front of the fifth house he saw the Mercedes with Saudi plates.
He parked the jeep at the end of the street and moved at a slow gait toward the house, taking notice of the few people on this quiet street.
When he reached out to knock on the front door, it opened and revealed the Iraqi pilot standing before him dressed as a civilian in tan trousers and a cream colored shirt.
“Welcome, Mr. Holden,” Lieutenant Zahedi said in English. “Please come in.”
Bill stepped in and watched the pilot lean out the door and glance up and down the street before closing it.
“You can never be too cautious.”
“My sentiments exactly, Lieutenant. I drove around Baghdad close to an hour. If I was followed, they were very good, but I don’t believe I was.”
The two men entered the living room, where three other men were standing. Two of them were dressed in traditional Saudi robes and the youngest man in Western attire.
“These are cousins of mine visiting from Saudi Arabia,” the pilot continued in English. “This is Medhat and Nasif and the younger one is Omed, who is the son of Nasif.”
Bill removed his kaffiyeh and extended his hand to each man.
Omed asked in Arabic, “Is he an American working for the UN?”
“Yes, I am,” Bill said in Arabic and smiled. “But before you ask, I’m not from Texas or a cowboy.”
The remarks broke the tension in the room and elicited a loud, boisterous laugh from Medhat.
Medhat moved close to Bill and said in English, “Well said, Mr. Holden. Young Omed would have asked you those questions if you hadn’t beaten him to it. Your Arabic is very good.”
Bill found his comfort zone violated by the man’s approach. But he was familiar with the Arab custom of standing close to converse, so he didn’t step back.
“And so’s your English.”
“I have been to America and so has my good friend Nasif. We are simple merchants who deal in works of bronze and pottery. Or I should say, I did—I’m retired now.”
Medhat stepped back. “Hilal, could we get some tea? Or would you prefer coffee, Mr. Holden?”
“Tea would be fine.”
Shapira came in and set the tea on the table and the men sat down.
“Mr. Holden,” said Hilal, “I feel that you’ll be more comfortable if we converse in English. Everyone in the room speaks your language, though Omed may need some translating.”
He smiled at Omed. “I mentioned during our brief exchange yesterday that our tribe is searching for a medallion that was lost centuries ago. We believe that the cleric who troubles you may have it now.”
“I appreciate your honesty, Lieutenant. After our talk I had reservations about attending this meeting. I figured I had a fifty-fifty chance of either falling into the hands of the Republican Guard or making an unwritten alliance that would benefit both of us. After meeting Mr. Medhat and his friends, I think the latter seems more likely.” Bill nodded toward the three Saudis.
“Please, Mr. Holden, my name is Medhat, but it isn’t my family name. Call me Medhat. Everyone I know does.”
“Agreed, Medhat, but if we’re going to be working together, everyone will have to call me Bill.”
“You said that you think the cleric who abducted the inspectors is the same one you’re searching for…”
Bill extended his hands, palms down. “I’ll lay my cards on the table, Hilal.”
Then he continued. “The day you and I met, I was returning from a cave in the Syrian Desert. It was the cave where the inspectors had been held—until they escaped a few days earlier. We had gone to the cave to try to find the man responsible, but he wasn’t there.”
Hilal shifted his weight. “I too was on a mission when your colleagues delayed me. My orders were to establish contact with a company of soldiers on the
lookout for traitors…Did you see any Republican Guard out there?”
Bill shook his head. “We found a cleric and a few stone workers who were trying to close up the cave…Unfortunately they were killed in an explosion…Before the cleric died he mentioned that his brothers had left for the cave where Muhammad received his revelations. And something about a ‘prophecy.’ Does any of that mean anything to you?”
The cousins exchanged glances and Nasif answered, “Not that we’re aware of, but clerics often talk about prophecies. We’ve heard rumors of a cave near Mecca and have learned that the Saudi government has taken control of it. We suspect that the cleric was headed for Mecca but returned to Iraq when he received the news.”
Medhat looked across the table at Bill. “You mentioned to Hilal that you’ve seen the cleric. Are you sure he’s the one?”
“I have no proof other than the cold hatred in his eyes when he saw me. I think he realizes I was in the cave and I suspect that he blames me for the deaths of the men he left behind.”
“Where did you see him?”
“At the Kazimayn Mosque.”
This startled Medhat. “How did you know he was there?”
“I’m afraid there are some things I can’t tell you—only that it came from a reliable source.”
“If he’s in the mosque, it will be impossible to get near him. If, as you say, he suspects that you have figured out his role in the abductions, he’ll be careful not to be kidnapped. We can have cousins watch the mosque in case he leaves.”
During this exchange Hilal had a thought. “There may be something that could tempt the cleric to leave the safety of the mosque.”
The four tribe members watched William Holden without saying a word. The decision wasn’t theirs to make.
“I appreciate what you’re thinking and I’ve considered it. But I don’t believe the cleric will agree to have tea with me, even if I give him a written invitation.”
Hilal leaned in. “How bad does he want you, Bill?”
“Having seen the look in his eyes yesterday, I think he wants me very badly, perhaps as badly as I want him. What do you suggest?”