The Imam of the Cave

by J Randall

  He found a good spot and sat down on the ground with his back against a wall. When a dust-coated car approached on the unpaved road, he lowered his head to watch it surreptitiously.

  The wall behind him was too high to scramble over if the visitors weren’t the ones he expected. He reached into his robe and derived a small sense of comfort from resting his hand on the butt of the pistol tucked into his belt.

  Out of the corner of his eyes he watched the Ford stop and observed the occupants as they got out and took in their surroundings. He recognized Medhat and Nasif in their black robes and red and white ghutras and Hilal in Western attire. The fourth man he hadn’t seen before—perhaps another of the cousins. He wore a white robe with a black and white checkered kaffiyeh.

  They saw him sitting against the wall but didn’t recognize him.

  He satisfied himself that they weren’t followed then stood up and headed toward them.

  Sabah had noticed the man sitting next to the wall even before they got out of the car. Now he slid his hand under his robe.

  Medhat shouted from thirty feet, “Bill! Marhaba! I wouldn’t have known it was you if you weren’t so tall.”

  Sabah took his hand off his pistol and smiled, as he had been trained.

  “Medhat, I’m pleased you could make it. Hello, Nasif, Hilal and…”

  “Forgive me. This is our cousin from Israel—Sabah.” Something in Medhat’s eyes and voice gave Bill and indication this might have been the reason for the meeting.

  “Shalom aleichem,” Bill greeted the man in Hebrew.

  “Aleichem shalom,” Mr. Holden. I’ve heard many good things about you from my cousins.”

  The reserved, alert manner of the gray eyed Israeli-Arab standing in front of him gave Bill the impression of an unusually serious man.

  “Your cousins are too kind. I’m just an inspector working for the United Nations, trying to right a wrong done to some of my men. Shall we find some shade? I’m afraid my time is limited.”

  “Of course.” Medhat gestured toward the shade of one of the walls excavated from the ruins.

  Addressing Sabah, Bill nodded toward the others. “As I mentioned to your cousins, I believe the cleric is very angry with me.”

  “Why doesn’t he have you killed?”

  Bill paused a beat at Sabah’s directness. “He probably wants me to suffer. I caused some of his followers to die.”

  Medhat moved a little closer to Bill. “We’ve brought Sabah up to date on what you told us, Bill.”

  Again, that look. “Our cousins are watching the mosque—the cleric remains secluded.”

  “What do you propose?”

  “I suggest you do nothing more to provoke him. Perhaps he will let his guard down.”

  Bill was a man used to taking action, but he could see the logic in Medhat’s suggestion. “Short of storming the mosque with an army, I guess there’s nothing we can do at present.”

  Sabah’s eyes focused on Bill like a hawk studying its prey. “Do you have one?”

  Bill was at first puzzled, then, when he realized that by ‘one’ Sabah meant an army, he was surprised by the question and wondered why the Israeli had asked it. “The UN’s in Iraq to prevent a war, not start one.”

  Sabah diverted his gaze to the ruins. “Yes, of course.”

  “Bill,” said Hilal, hearing some tension in the exchange, “there is something you need to know. When I called the air base to check in, a friend told me an urgent directive had been issued from the headquarters of the Baghdad military district. The Republican Guard will resume accompanying UN inspection teams in seven days—next Tuesday.”

  “Was a reason given?”

  “No, they never explain. Just give orders.”

  “It appears time is working against us.”

  “I’ll contact you if I learn more.”

  Bill nodded. “I’ll wait to hear from you, Medhat. If I think of anything, I’ll contact you.

  They shook hands and the cousins walked to the Ford. As the car rolled away toward Baghdad, Bill saw Medhat raise an arm and heard him call out, “Ma as-salaama.”

  Bill waved and replied, “Good-bye.”

  He glanced at his watch and returned to the shade of the wall, where he remained until he heard the friendly sound of the helicopter. He adjusted his robe and slid cautiously down the incline to the pickup point.

  During the uneventful return flight to Baghdad Bill considered the options.

  Back at the compound he stepped out of the helicopter and waited until the engine shut down and the rotors came to a stop. As Jerry and Smitty got out, he shook their hands and thanked them.

  “I appreciate your service, gentlemen. As always, it was a pleasure.”

  “Any time, Mr. Holden,” said Smitty.

  Bill grasped his robe to keep from tripping on it and waved as he went to his room to change.

  * * *

  A couple of hours later a knock sounded on Bill’s door.

  “Come in, it’s open.”

  Bob opened the door and stuck his head in. “It’s me.”

  “Come in, Robert. Would you like a cool one?”

  “Yeah, I could use one.”

  “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

  “I was talking to the duty officer and I seen no one was watching the compound.”

  “Jerry Perry says the same thing.”

  Bob pulled the tab, lifted the can to his lips, tilted it and drained the beer in less than ten seconds. “Any time, Bill, and thanks for the beer.” He belched then tossed the empty can into a wastebasket and left.

  Bill finished off his own can before letting his curiosity take him to the motor pool, where he signed out a UN Toyota Land Cruiser, listing his destination as an inspection site less than twenty miles away.

  He deliberately drove out slowly through the iron gates, searching for the motorbike he expected to be following him. When he reached the site he got out and stood quietly in the waning light of day to see who would show up.

  With the confirmation that his jaunt was indeed solitary, he drove slowly back to the compound, depressed that he seemed no longer able to cause anything to happen.

  CHAPTER 52: MUSTAFA’S PLAN

  THE MAN RUSHED INTO THE MOSQUE with more energy than his gray hair and aged facial features let on. Because of an injury from his youth, he favored his right leg as he hurried to the rear in search of the young cleric, Mustafa Wazir.

  The man spotted the slender, youthfully bearded cleric sitting at a table talking to a visitor seeking spiritual guidance.

  The seeker left and the man approached but hesitated when he saw the silent servant, whose eyes were always moving and seldom focused on anything longer than a couple of seconds. He was on his knees next to the table polishing the floor.

  Mustafa beckoned the man forward.

  “Sit down, Abdullah. You have something to report?”

  “I do. The blue hats are coming out of the hotel again. I’ve asked our men who dwell near the places forbidden to the Iraqi military to inform me when they see the blue hats inspecting. One of our men saw one of the infidels in his neighborhood yesterday evening.”

  “How many are back on the street?”

  Abdullah shook his head. “It can’t be many. That one is the only one who has been spotted—William Holden.”

  Mustafa gasped. “You’re sure it was Holden? The infidels dress alike and our man must have seen him from a distance.”

  “He recognized him from when he was watching the hotel. Before the Imam ordered everyone off the gate. He’s sure it was the same man.”

  Mustafa’s eyes brightened. “Contact the others. I want someone at each place the UN goes.”

  “We don’t have enough people to watch them all. Some are far from Baghdad.”

  “Can you observe the ones within ten kilometers of the city?”

  “I think so, but how will we communicate?”

  Mustafa reached into his robe and
produced a fistful of US dollars and handed the money to Abdullah. “I want you to buy enough mobile phones to give one to each man. Show them how they work and put my telephone number in each one. If they see Holden they are not to make their presence known. If the situation allows and they are able to subdue him without causing grave injury they are to call me. Under no circumstances is Holden to be killed or harmed. He must be able to understand what is happening to him.”

  Abdullah weighed the implications of these restrictions. He took the money and left.

  Mustafa knocked on the Imam’s door, his slender body trembling with excitement and the uncertainty of his leader’s reaction to the news.

  He heard the Imam’s acknowledgment and stepped in.

  “What is it, Mustafa?”

  “You were right to order the watchers off the gate. Holden has been seen outside his hotel.”

  The Imam’s eyes narrowed. “I had asked that he not be followed.”

  “He was not followed, brother. One of our faithful who lives close to an installation that the blue hats examine saw him.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes, brother. They said he was alone…”

  Mustafa swallowed. “I have taken steps you should be aware of.”

  The Imam’s brow bunched in a knot. “Tell me.”

  “I have asked Abdullah, one of our faithful, to have men watch every place the blue hats have shown an interest in. They will watch places within ten kilometers of Baghdad and notify us when Holden is spotted. I gave Abdullah enough money to purchase a mobile phone for each man.”

  The Imam didn’t say anything for a few seconds. “You understand my reason for not watching him. I want him complacent.” The rebuke in the Imam’s voice was strong.

  “I know. I’ve ordered our faithful to do nothing unless you order it…Do you think Holden is dangerous?”

  “It is possible, but if he is alone, the worst thing he could do if we came face to face is shoot me.”

  Mustafa drew back in alarm.

  The Imam raised a reassuring hand. “I don’t believe that is his intent. He had two opportunities and both times I lived. I believe he cannot release the anguish he feels over his men. That anguish is like a rubber band that has been stretched between us. Until it breaks he will be drawn to me.”

  The Imam rested a hand on the young cleric’s shoulder. “You have done well. Abdullah is a faithful follower. The moment you learn something, tell me. No matter what I am doing.”

  “Imam…have you news of our brothers who accompanied you to Saudi Arabia?”

  “No, but I pray for them.”

  Mustafa prepared to leave.

  “Remember one thing.”

  Mustafa looked back. “What is that, Imam?”

  “If it is Allah’s will, he will show them the way as he will show you the way.”

  CHAPTER 53: DAR AL-SALAM HOTEL

  GLORIA ROSE AT SEVEN A.M. the morning after visiting the safehouse. She showered under the hotel’s lukewarm water then dressed in a pair of blue jeans, a gray knit sweater and a blue nylon windbreaker.

  She gave her room the once over then locked the door and carried her camera case and small clothing bag to the hotel reception.

  The desk clerk this morning was a skinny man whose black bow tie hung at roughly the angle of a dead butterfly.

  She set five dollars on the counter. “I’m taking a short trip to Hatra. I should be back in two days, three at the most.”

  The clerk smiled and slipped the money into his pocket. “Have a pleasant trip.”

  She drove out of the hotel parking lot and cruised around Baghdad for an hour to get a feel for the erratic traffic that constricted to chaotic bottlenecks at major intersections.

  Her lightning quick reflexes averted two fender benders and the unwanted questions that the notorious Baghdad police might otherwise have peppered her with. Her quick maneuvers were rewarded by a bombardment of honking horns and vulgarities from the male drivers.

  When Gloria accessed the tree-lined streets of the suburb situating the safehouse, she felt more comfortable. She steered the car into a deserted residential street and drove slowly to the safehouse’s gated driveway and entered.

  The house was quiet and everything seemed as she recalled from the day before.

  Her first act after locking the front door was to open the solid oak sideboard. If she was going to end up in little pieces, spread across the neighborhood, now was as good a time as any.

  Trusting that she remembered the instructions, she manipulated the key, lifted the lid and smiled, not so much at averting the destructive power of the C-4 explosive as at seeing the array of weapons at her disposal.

  Gloria locked the sideboard and reconnoitered the house, committing to memory its layout and possible exits. She noticed a light dust on the modern—but not overly expensive—furniture.

  The Persian carpets lying on the floors would have sold for a fortune in the West, but could be bought in Baghdad on the black market for a fraction of their value.

  Cleaning women could present a problem, but she knew that the efficiently professional Peter would have warned her if any might come. He had asked her to mail the keys to London after she departed Baghdad and she guessed that this would signal them to have someone come in and sanitize the house.

  Satisfied that everything was as it appeared to be, she took a small compact from her purse and walked over to the window. She brushed a fine coat of the nude powder on the sill then moved to the next until every window was prepped.

  At each exterior door she pulled out one of her black hairs, wet and attached it over the crack between the door and the frame.

  Her tripwires were crude, but they would alert her if anyone intruded while she was out.

  She carried her bags to the windowless smaller bedroom in the interior of the house and changed her clothes.

  The Arab woman in the mirror returned her admiring gaze. With her dark hair and contact lenses, she could pass for a local and, wearing the traditional black chador protecting the modesty of her body like a Muslim, from head to toe, she would be completely ignored on the street.

  On a map of Baghdad she noted the marked bus stops. She had already decided to leave the car and use public transportation or taxis during the day.

  She tucked the map into the bag she carried under her chador and left the house.

  Following the map’s course, she walked two blocks to the nearest bus stop. If the buses were still running on the same schedule as printed on the map, one would transport her to within a quarter kilometer of the BMVC compound. If not, she would take a taxi.

  At the bus stop Gloria joined a group of women dressed as she was. She remained quiet, listening to their banter and soaking up the atmosphere of the street.

  The talk of the older women revolved around food and family, while the young women talked about fashion and makeup.

  Some men nearby ignored the woman as they smoked their strong Iraqi cigarettes and quietly talked politics.

  When the crowded bus arrived, the men boarded first, taking all of the available seats and leaving the women standing in the aisle hanging onto a broken rail.

  Searching for street signs as the bus made occasional stops, Gloria saw throngs of people packed together, like lemmings on a migration, waiting for the cheap public transportation.

  She became afraid that she would miss her exit, but another chador-covered woman mentioned to her friend the street that Gloria was looking for and it was the next exit.

  The sounds and smells of the city were no different from others in the Middle East, with the exception of the anxiety that was evident in the faces of people on the street here and in overheard snippets of their conversation—the fear of too little money or of the markets lacking the cooking oil and flour needed to survive from day to day.

  But worse, she guessed from the wary eyes of the people always moving and looking over their shoulders, was the terror they felt in the face of th
e regime and of the secret police that plucked people off the street, never to be seen or heard from again.

  Near the BMVC compound, she found a café that was listed in her briefing packet on Baghdad. It was a place where someone—not necessarily supportive of Saddam’s policies—could sit for an hour and talk quietly about what was wrong in Iraq. But she would be cautious, for she knew that situations in Baghdad changed more quickly than Saddam’s confidants.

  She sat in a quiet corner and ordered an espresso. Paying with two US dollars made her a valued customer, who wouldn’t be disturbed until she was ready to order again.

  She reached into her chador, brought out her satellite cell phone and dialed a number.

  “Hello, it’s Gloria. I’m in a small café not far from the compound…No, everything’s fine. No problems. Have you heard anything?…Yes, all right, until this afternoon. I’m going to the mosque then back to the safehouse…Okay, good-bye.”

  Gloria finished her espresso and left the café.

  She hailed a taxi and asked the driver to take her to the Kazimayn Mosque, then she sat back and took in the scenery.

  The mosque wasn’t crowded, but there were enough people around to distract attention from a lone woman. She surveyed the public areas, then—knowing that the inner sanctum for males was off limits to her—decided that she might as well leave.

  Near the main entrance she identified two clerics by their beards, black robes and white turbans. Engaged in a serious debate, they were oblivious to her presence.

  When her angle brought the older cleric’s face clearly into view, she got the impression that he was admonishing the younger man. She instinctively tightened the chador about her, lowered her head and quickened her pace.

  At the point where she was closest to them she heard the older cleric say in Arabic, “I want William Holden,” then out of the corner of her eye she saw him close his mouth and turn his head to watch her walk past.

  Gloria could feel the man’s eyes on her and she wanted to run—her heart beating a drum roll—but she continued at a steady pace.

  Her panic rose until she reached the street, where the traffic moved like an army of ants marching around their colony.