Scorpion Strike

by Nance, John J. ;

  Obviously he worked for Saddam.

  20

  Western suburbs, Baghdad

  Sunday, March 10, 1991—11:00 P.M. (2000 GMT)

  Akhmed looked around the small office of his makeshift jail and sighed. It was a municipal building, of course, but their hard work had made it an effective interrogation and holding facility. Especially all the work that went into installing the tape recorders and speaker system, all of which had been ordered from the United States before the war. The irony always made him chuckle.

  A messenger from army headquarters had been left waiting in the outer chamber of the building, and Akhmed motioned to him now as one of his men placed the plastic tub back in a large freezer after yet another highly effective session of scaring the enemy half to death. It had been a stroke of genius, he thought, to stay on good relations with one of the army morticians. Whatever body parts were needed to terrify prisoners, the proper size and color could usually be provided in short order, then frozen and thawed when needed. It was macabre, but no more so than the horrid deeds they pretended to be doing.

  Both Americans would be basket cases of terror in a few more hours, Akhmed knew, even if they didn’t continue the carefully prepared program of gruesome tape-recorded screams and chain-saw sounds accompanied by his men howling and screaming and thrashing about on schedule.

  Akhmed acknowledged the messenger and signed for the classified dispatch from military command headquarters somewhere across town. He tore open the envelope and read the cold Arabic words with resignation and disgust.

  “So, Assid,” he said to the nearest guard, “we are directed to deliver these two Americans to a representative from the Interior Ministry around midnight tonight. And so we are out of business again.”

  He refolded the dispatch and handed it to one of his men. They were taking his last two prisoners. It was a disappointment. All he would have needed was two days. Just forty-eight hours, and he could have squeezed out all the information they had before having to send them home in the impending prisoner exchange. It would have impressed his superiors, or so he had hoped. But now he was ordered to deny the Americans had ever existed and turn them over to the real sadists.

  Which meant they were as good as dead.

  “Saddam must be even angrier than we thought, eh?” Assid answered, as Akhmed nodded.

  Akhmed shuddered inwardly to think of what lay ahead for those two. He and his guards were trained to pretend to be bloodthirsty homicidal maniacs.

  But the ones the two colonels would face by midnight would not be pretending.

  Shakir Abbas pulled up to the temporary jail at eleven-forty and turned out the lights, having already given careful instructions to the two soldiers with him. They were to keep their guns on safety at all times. Under no circumstances were they to harm the prisoners or injure them or treat them roughly. They were to answer no questions asked by the keepers of this facility, and they were to obey only Shakir’s orders.

  Thanks to the encounter an hour before, there was no way either man was going to question a word he said.

  The door to the squat, undistinguished cinderblock building was opened without hesitation, and much to his surprise, Shakir was ushered inside with nothing more than a cursory look at the papers Hashamadi had prepared.

  “I am here to collect the two Americans, in accordance with the orders of—”

  A heavily built man in civilian clothes motioned for his guard to close the door. “The Interior Ministry, yes I know,” he said, shaking Shakir’s hand briefly. “I am Akhmed Anbarra, commander of this facility.” He turned to lead the way to an inside office then, glancing back over his shoulder as they walked. “I must tell you this transfer is unnecessary. We could extract all the information needed from these two by ourselves, but I know you people don’t believe that.” He shrugged, and gestured toward the door. “You want handcuffs and blindfolds?”

  “I’m sorry?” Shakir’s face had already registered surprise before he realized Akhmed meant the prisoners. “Oh, of course. Real handcuffs only if you have a spare key. Otherwise, use the plastic ones. I don’t want to go through that debacle again.”

  Good, Shakir thought, at least one rehearsed line I can use. “Blindfolds are unnecessary. Where they’re going, you see …” He let his voice trail off with the implication Akhmed had expected.

  “I understand. Wait here, if you don’t mind.” He disappeared into the hallway then, leaving Shakir in a quandary.

  How could they be expecting me? And what of the mention of the Interior Ministry? Interior controlled Saddam’s hard-core goons—his secret police. Could General Hashamadi have sent them word? That wasn’t possible! It would have tipped his hand. It would have—

  The banging of doors and the sound of feet in the corridor prompted Shakir to step out of the office at the moment Will Westerman was shoved around a distant corner, his hands cuffed behind him as he fell against the far wall and one of the guards yelled at him.

  He looks awful! But I mustn’t notice.

  Westerman had a four-day growth of beard, his hair was scraggly, and his flight suit was ragged—and he was barefoot.

  “Do they have shoes?” Shakir asked in Arabic.

  Akhmed nodded, shooting him a slightly puzzled expression that seemed to require an explanation.

  “Our rules,” he said simply.

  Akhmed shrugged and disappeared back around the same corner as Westerman was brought within ten feet of Shakir. The colonel had not looked up yet, and as more commotion around the corner of the hallway announced the arrival of Doug Harris, Westerman looked back over his shoulder instead, his jaw dropping open in surprise at the same moment Harris’s eyes grew wide with equal shock.

  “Doug—”

  “Shut up!” Akhmed snarled at Will, and then glowered at Doug.

  Will had turned back to the front of the corridor, his eyes landing on Shakir and his eyebrows flaring slightly in recognition.

  Shakir quickly filled the silence by ordering his two soldiers into position, their guns pointed at Will and Doug just as he had instructed them. There was a danger, however slight, that one of the colonels might say something if the seconds weren’t filled with sound and motion. Shakir could tell they were both taking it all in and trying to fathom the Iraqi scientist’s role.

  And he couldn’t give them a chance to get it wrong.

  Shakir switched to accented English then. He had to assume someone in the facility also spoke the language. “You two American swine will keep your mouths shut and follow my orders exactly, or I will have you shot here and now, you understand?”

  He kept his voice low and tense and angry, noticing the slight nod of Akhmed’s head as he brought Westerman’s and Harris’s boots around the corner and threw them at the two men.

  “Take the boots and move. Now!” Shakir yelled at them, issuing a final order in Arabic to the privates as they marched the two colonels past him.

  “Lock them in and keep them under guard.”

  Don’t, please don’t try to say anything to me as you pass, Shakir pleaded silently, pushing past them as rapidly as possible, averting his eyes from theirs, and turning instead to Akhmed, who handed him the key to the handcuffs, which were the traditional type.

  “I’m on a tight schedule,” he said simply. “Thank you for the smooth transfer.”

  Akhmed looked shocked. No one from the secret police or the Interior Ministry had ever thanked him for anything before. They were always contemptuous of the military being involved in questioning. Who was this Dr. Damerji, anyway?

  Shakir saw the look and knew he had overplayed the part. He should have acted more in charge and haughty. The secret police wouldn’t be friendly, especially not a “doctor.”

  But there was no way to repair it without making it worse.

  Shakir turned toward the door then, and followed the men into the drive, feeling Akhmed’s eyes on him every inch of the way. He nodded in approval as the two guards c
limbed in the rear and shut the doors. His hands began to shake suddenly as he opened the driver’s door, climbed in, and started the engine.

  Akhmed was standing in the doorway now, his image reflected in Shakir’s rearview mirror. Two of Akhmed’s guards also appeared with him at the door, and as Shakir put the van in gear, he could see them conversing.

  Did I get the orders back? What if I left them?

  Shakir fumbled for the paper with General Hashamadi’s signature on it, relieved to find it was still in his shirt pocket. But the guard would remember the name of the man who had signed it, and that name was all wrong if they were expecting the Interior Ministry. Why would an army general be signing orders for the Interior Ministry?

  The van was clearing the gate now, but Shakir could see Akhmed take a few steps into the drive, still staring at the van, his head jerking back and forth between one of his men and the disappearing prisoners. There were no other vehicles near the door, and Shakir prayed there were none parked nearby.

  You’re being paranoid. He has no reason to suspect …

  The van’s license plate suddenly loomed large in Shakir’s memory. He had meant to remove it, but hadn’t. A secret police van might not have a license plate at all. Could Akhmed have noticed that?

  One block between us now!

  Will and Doug were quiet in the darkness behind him, for which he was thankful. There was no time to explain yet what was going on.

  Shakir had turned right out of the driveway of the building, the taillights of the van disappearing from Akhmed’s view off to the west as the road curved slightly. Now Shakir turned left and left again, doubling back to the east on a different street that crossed the main road leading directly to the detention building.

  There were lights to the right now, headed for the same intersection he was approaching and moving in a direct line toward the detention building. They would reach the intersection first, so Shakir slowed to let the dark, unmarked panel truck and the black sedan pass.

  He accelerated then, crossing the intersection, glancing left to see their taillights enter the driveway the van had just left.

  Bringing another hapless prisoner, I suppose, Shakir said to himself, the realization taking a few seconds to hit.

  No! That’s not it. They said they were expecting a transfer when I arrived. So I must have arrived first! When they discover what’s happened …

  Cold fear pressed his foot to the floor as Shakir rocketed the van around corners and threaded his way to the south through back streets on a route he had carefully preplanned at a slower speed.

  There was an empty military warehouse several miles away where he would leave the two soldiers, and he couldn’t show panic or explain things to Westerman and Harris until that was done.

  Shakir kept watching the rearview mirror, fully expecting to see headlights chasing him. It would have taken Akhmed no more than a split second to figure out he’d been duped, once the real secret police showed up.

  The sudden appearance of a vehicle behind them in the distance pushed up his heart rate, but the car turned off in another direction.

  Perhaps he should pull into an alcove somewhere, kill the lights, and just sit.

  No, he had to stay calm and stick with the plan. Baghdad was a large city, and there were several miles between them now.

  At last the gates of the warehouse were just ahead. Shakir braked and killed the lights, letting the engine idle as he briefed the two privates, having first pulled his Kalashnikov into his lap to show he was adequately armed.

  “You are to get out here,” Shakir began in Arabic, “hide yourselves, and guard this entrance until dawn. Then you will walk back to your barracks. You are not expected back until the day after tomorrow, so you may take your time and relax. But under no circumstances are you to report to anyone what you have seen tonight. None of this happened. If you care for your lives, you will obey me. I can handle these two.”

  Having completed the short speech, he got out and came around the van, opening the rear door to let them out and making a show of handcuffing first Westerman and then Harris to one of the arms of the bench seat. He slammed the doors again and locked them from the outside as the soldiers took up their positions inside the gate and waved good-bye, happy to be given the next two days off for an easy night’s work.

  Shakir had found the rear exit to the warehouse earlier in the day. He drove into the middle of the facility now and rolled to the far end, out of sight of the guards, killing the lights and letting the engine idle as they rolled quietly out the far end and through a large break in the fence.

  Shakir put a mile and a half between the warehouse and the van before stopping. He cut the lights and the engine and opened the rear door with a sheepish grin that Doug and Will could see in the reflected glow of the city lights.

  “Can we talk now?” Doug asked.

  “Yes, but quietly. There are homes around here,” Shakir said.

  Doug shook off the second handcuff and helped unlock Will before jumping to the ground and grabbing Shakir’s shoulders.

  “I knew the moment I saw you back there that you weren’t the enemy! Thank you, Doctor! I can’t tell you … I …” There was a large lump in his throat suddenly, the memory of what had transpired six hours earlier washing over him in an uncontrollable wave.

  Will jumped out as well, his hands scooping up Shakir’s right hand and squeezing it until it hurt.

  “Where on earth did you come from, Doctor? How did you know?”

  Will could feel tears in his eyes. A familiar face had never looked so good, though Will thought with a deep pang of remorse that he had treated Shakir as anything but a friend during the mission.

  Shakir had placed his left hand on Doug’s forearm and had tried to jar Will into letting go of his right, but it wasn’t working. They were delirious with appreciation, and the chase had just begun.

  “Listen to me!” Shakir said in a harsh whisper. “We are all in great danger. I can explain more as we go, but we must get moving! They will already be looking for you, and for me.”

  The two colonels fell silent and glanced at each other for a second before nodding and hurrying back to the front seat.

  Shakir rolled clear of the neighborhood with the lights off, barely touching the accelerator, before using more gas as he continued to weave through residential and rural areas, trending always toward the south.

  The next few miles were a blur of exchanged information on Shakir’s search for the canisters and the cooperative turncoat general and Doug and Will’s crash in the desert followed by their struggle to get back across the border, but within ten minutes all three of them realized that something vital was missing.

  “What’s our plan, here?” Will asked at last. “Do we have a plan?”

  Shakir shook his head. “To be honest with you, I’m not sure. I guess I’ll drive you out.”

  “You’ll go with us, then. Good.”

  “No,” Shakir said, surprising Will and Doug. Shakir had been suppressing the realities of what might happen—what would happen—afterwards. General Hashamadi had been right. Get your family and leave, he had said. But getting these two Americans across the border with the last canister was the most important duty. They could be trusted to destroy it. Then he would head back for Saliah and the children and pray to Allah he could get them all out in time. It would probably be a day or two before they connected the name Shakir Abbas with all that had transpired.

  Maybe.

  “I will go back for my wife and children after you are safely across,” he said.

  “Where do you live, Doctor? Where is your family?”

  “Please, just call me Shakir.” He pointed to the right of the van at a splotch of lights on the near horizon. “A small village over there about five miles.”

  “Well, then,” Will said, “if we’re that close, what’s wrong with right now?”

  Shakir seemed confused. “I … beg your pardon?”

  W
ill glanced at Doug who was nodding vigorously.

  “Turn right. Let’s go get your family, and then we’ll all get the hell out of here!”

  Shakir hadn’t considered the possibility. He looked back at Will, then at Doug, surprised at their resolve. That part of his plan had been the shakiest. It would be best to get his family now, but that would put these two Americans in more danger.

  “I thank you, but it will take an extra hour, and it is dangerous enough for you now.”

  “We’ll take the risk,” Will said.

  Strange, Shakir thought. That is exactly what I said to General Hashamadi.

  Will’s right hand squeezed Shakir’s right arm then as Doug’s voice rang in his ears.

  “We’re all in this together, my friend.”

  21

  Southwest of Baghdad

  Monday, March 11, 1991—12:45 A.M. (2145 GMT)

  They had seen the roadblock in time, but just barely. Shakir had planned to cross the main highway from east to west to get to his village, but sirens and blinking red lights in the darkness had made them all uneasy. So he kept to the back roads, unobtrusively paralleling the highway until he spotted a formidable collection of military vehicles blocking the route to Kuwait.

  He cut the lights then and turned before they were seen.

  But the back roads were being cut off progressively as well, and as Shakir tried to stay ahead of the closing net, a military car of some sort moved into position a half-mile ahead of them on the last available escape route south.

  They drove north and northeast then, watching yet another roadblock go up behind them just after they’d shot through a rural intersection. It was painfully obvious that an angry regime was trying to seal off any possible escape route.

  Blocked to the south and west by the military and hemmed in on the east by the Tigris River, Shakir continued north, worried that even if they got to his village, it too would be surrounded, and his family perhaps already arrested.