3 Great Thrillers
Page 13
‘Tough one, Toby. Can I get you a fresh beer?’
Richmond showed his chit card to the Kuwaiti steward; he didn’t carry loose change into combat. The major turned to Ashe. ‘Someone I want you to meet.’
Through the double doors burst a big man in an Hawaiian shirt, with a gut that tumbled over his shorts like a snowdrift over a precipice. His broad forehead was dripping wet.
Ashe got up from the steel table. ‘Vincent Zappa, I presume.’
‘Vinny. It’s Vinny.’
‘Vinny, hi – I’m Toby Ashe.’
‘Very pleased to meet you at last, Toby. Simon here’s told me a lot about you.’
‘Beer, Vinny?’
‘Sure, Major. Large one. And a bourbon chaser. Christ, Toby! Hell of a day out!’
‘Tell me about it?’
‘Sure, I’ll tell ya. Yours truly was escorting a subject back to the Green Zone, OK? Major was out in front. I had two guys in a Humvee behind. I got the suspect cuffed next to me. Terrified. Next thing, a landmine’s detonated under the wheels of the guys in front. The suspect leans back, kicks the driver in the back of the neck, head butts ol’ Zappa here, somehow gets out the car while it’s skidding up the sidewalk and rolls to the side of the street. Our car rams into the side of a house. The guy gets picked up by insurgents. There’s AK-47 fire from all sides. The driver’s hit. I’m down on the floor of the car. The Humvee team’s under heavy fire. Major’s outta the Snatch in no time, throws a grenade – hits some bastards on the roof. Our team strafes the windows – there’s more fire coming straight outta there. Air’s filled with stone and concrete and Lord knows what else. The guys inside the house start chanting some Arabic stuff. Then the damn house blows up. Booby-trapped. Our guys behind are showered in shit – and then, before you could say “the Alamo”, the street’s empty. We got one dead, one severely wounded and we lost our suspect. But hear this, Toby, your guy Richmond. Jeez! What a fuckin’ hero.’
Zappa sank the bourbon in one, then demolished the beer. ‘My shout, Major.’
Ashe noticed Richmond looking pensive, his face taut, his eyes red. ‘Did you get that, Simon? You’re the hero of the hour.’
‘Mission was a failure, Toby. And the casualties… The driver was a lovely guy.’
‘Sure, I’ll drink to that.’ Zappa was ready for another trip to the bar. ‘Don’t take it so bad, Major. You did all a man could.’
‘Give me five minutes, Vinny. I’ll think of something.’
‘But we don’t get that extra five damn minutes, do we, Major? That’s the whole damn thing. You can’t be ready for everything. Progress is treading in dog shit and avoiding it in future. Now drink that fuckin’ beer, Richmond; that’s an order!’
Richmond raised his eyes from the floor and gave a rueful smile.
‘Come on, my man! We’ll make the motherfuckers pay, next time round. Just thank the Lord we got a next time. And by the way, Limey…’
‘Yes?’
‘Thanks for saving my life.’
‘It was nothing.’
‘Maybe to you, boy. But to me – hell! – it’s all I got!’
Richmond smiled again, nodded and drank deep. ‘All right, chaps. You get to know one another. I’d better go and write the report – and the letters home.’
Zappa got up and shook Richmond’s hand firmly. ‘Thanks again, buddy.’
‘You just look after my friend here.’
‘You bet, Major.’
Richmond grinned unconvincingly and sloped off.
‘Sometimes you Brits can be so damn cool. And other times, so fuckin’ sensitive.’
‘We feel the same about you.’
‘You do?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, how about that! I gotta tell ya, Toby. I didn’t have all that much respect for you English guys before this war began, but I sure as hell do now. Goddamn! Between us, we’re gonna have to save this whole chicken-shit world!’
‘Do you think the world’s ready for that, Vinny?’
‘There ya go again, asking questions. You think too much, my man! If you’d been out there today, you’d soon see, Toby, that in this life you got two squares to stand on. Black or white. And if you get caught jumping from one to the other in an unbalanced way, you’ll get your balls blown off!’
‘Very Masonic way of looking at it.’
‘Sure, I’m a Freemason. You?’
‘Lapsed.’
‘Don’t give Uncle Vinny that “lapsed” shit! Once a Brother, always a Brother!’
‘Have you read the request from Desk, Vinny?’
‘Wha’d’ya mean “read”? Desk don’t do paper, Toby.’
‘Right.’
‘Hell, son. You should know better, after all I heard about you. Damn hell, I heard you were some kind of a magician or something.’
‘Not quite.’
‘Not quite. You Brits! Here’s to ya!’
Zappa had located another bourbon. ‘Right, Toby, shoot!’
‘The issue is whether or not you have a source, or may obtain a source who can put me in touch with—’
‘Yeah, yeah. Those Kurdish guys. OK. I’ve just come back from Kirkuk in the north. And neither the Kurdistan Democratic Party, nor the Patriotic Union of Kurdistan is a hundred per cent sympathetic to Kurdish agitators within Turkey. I refer to the PKK.’
‘As far as I know, neither of the guys I’m looking for are extremists. They might even be Freemasons – in Istanbul.’
Zappa raised his eyebrows and paused for a few seconds.
‘Be that as it may, my man. I don’t know what they expect to achieve by speaking to Massoud Barzani or Jalal Talabani. You say Turkish agents are tracking your guys in Iraq. If Barzani or Talabani got wind of that, they’d stay outta sight.’
‘Officially, perhaps. But as I said, these deputies are probably moderates. Or appear to be.’
‘OK, Toby. But you can be sure Turkish intelligence suspects they’ve got some relationship with the PKK. Why else would two Turkish Kurds come to northern Iraq?’
‘Maybe they’ve come for protection, simply to avoid arrest. The point is, we don’t know. I need to know.’
‘Desk informed me there was a terrorist attack on your department in England.’
‘Suspected.’
‘Makes no sense at all to me, Toby. No fuckin’ sense at all.’ Zappa shook his head.
‘Can you get me to these guys, Vinny?’
Zappa looked Ashe right in the eye. ‘Look hard at these eyes, Mr Ashe, sir. In North Carolina, my family they hunt foxes. Ain’t no pussy face gonna stop us neither! Unlike you guys, we don’t think it sport to let the critters go. I’ll find your source, old chap. And all you gotta do is sit right down there and rehydrate!’
37
Beck was panting when he entered Kellner’s office at CIA Langley.
‘Si’down, Beck.’
‘Got here as soon as I could, sir.’
‘CTC SIGINT has picked up another epistle from our “doctor” friend.’
‘Trace, sir?’
‘They’re workin’ on it now. Told they got a new female in there. Began work as an amateur in Wisconsin, tracing al-Qaeda internet links. Quite an operator.’
‘Would she have gotten a job before 9/11?’
‘One thing about a crisis, Beck. Brings out the talent!’
‘And shows up the deadwood, sir.’
‘Ain’t no deadwood here, Sherman.’
‘No, sir. God forbid, sir.’
‘In God we trust, Agent Beck.’
‘So does the enemy, sir.’
‘We can’t both be wrong, Beck.’
Kellner stood up and put his hands on his hips. ‘I’m short of time so I’m not gonna tell ya everything right now. I’ll leave that to Leanne Gresham. She’s had to cope with a few surprises concerning her dear Sami al-Qasr. I’ll give you a summary, ’cause I want your reaction here and now. The “doctor” claims to have been at Baghdad University
with al-Qasr. Late sixties and early seventies. Friends even.’
‘Could be personal, sir.’
‘Yeah. But it’s motivation we’re lookin’ for. They disagreed about politics. Student stuff. Al-Qasr joined the Ba’ath Party. Pan-Arab socialism. Party-knows-best kinda thing. He studied physics, biology, chemistry.’
‘All that’s in our al-Qasr file, sir.’
‘Just bear with me, Beck. There’s bound to be overlap. In 1974, his biology thesis got him the attention of Sir Moses Beerbohm in Cambridge, England. He’s a world authority – I guess you know that.’
‘Al-Qasr joined the MRC Laboratory of Molecular Biology on a Wellcome Trust research fellowship, sir. He assisted Sir Moses Beerbohm in Cambridge.’
‘On what, Beck?’
‘Research on the interactions of proteins with nucleic acids, the molecular structures of viruses. Al-Qasr assisted in the method of 3-D image reconstruction in electron microscopy from a series of 2-D tilted images. This work later formed the basis of the X-ray CT scanner. But Sir Moses’s biggest hit was the discovery of the zinc finger family of transcription factors. These are used to regulate genes. Latest research – and al-Qasr is at the forefront of this – is in using the zinc finger design to engineer artificial factors to switch genes on and off.’
‘Switching genes on or off. I’m impressed, Sherman Beck. And wondering if you’re in the right line of business.’
‘Thank you, sir. If that was a compliment.’
‘Now, Beck, you can rampage through all the technical stuff when you see Leanne Gresham. I thought I was going to tell you something you didn’t know.’
‘Absolutely, sir. That’s why I’m here.’
‘OK. Now cast your mind back to Great Britain in the late seventies and early eighties. Al-Qasr is a wizzo in genes. But he’s getting frustrated with his own research. Beerbohm’s got him workin’ on a long-term project. Highly statistical stuff. He’s relating genes to specific diseases in specific areas. Lots of fieldwork in the flatlands of East Anglia, England. Ever spent a week in North Dakota, Beck?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Not every young man’s dream. Al-Qasr was more interested in what Beerbohm was doing. Beerbohm was flattered. Maybe he was thinking of an heir to his intellectual fortune.’
‘Maybe he fancied him.’
‘Think there’s a sex angle here, Beck?’
‘I thought we were looking for motivation, sir.’
‘Don’t be a smart-ass. Beerbohm started using al-Qasr as a kind of sounding board. Seems al-Qasr is turned on by the idea of rewriting genes. Then Sir Moses gets the Nobel Prize for Chemistry. That was 1982. Al-Qasr observes fame close up. Smells good. You could say the boy’s straining at the limits of ambition. But he’s in the old man’s shadow.’
‘So?’
‘So the fuckin’ Iran–Iraq war enters the scene. In 1983, al-Qasr gets offered a golden cheque as an inducement to go back to his homeland in its hour of need. The war is going badly for Iraq after early gains. Saddam’s getting desperate. He’s putting a lot of effort into unconventional weapons to give him the edge. It’s December ’83. Al-Qasr has just got back to Iraq from England. Don Rumsfeld meets Saddam. Normal diplomatic ties ensue between the US and Iraq. Trade benefits for Saddam include sales of chemical and biological agents.’
‘Biological agents?’
‘Yeah. Including anthrax. Don’t they tell you these things in the Bureau? We don’t live on Sesame Street, Beck.’
‘No, sir.’
‘March 1984. The UN reports Iraq used mustard gas and tabun nerve gas against the Iranians. As I said, Saddam was on his back foot. Now this is where it gets interesting, Beck. So pay attention, d’ya hear?’
‘Sir.’
‘Al-Qasr’s workin’ on… Well, from what we can gather from our guy in Iraq here, al-Qasr’s workin’ on fuckin’ everything. How to treat Iraqi troops if caught downwind of mustard gas. How to deal with anthrax. Perfection of gases for controlled use.’
‘Controlled use?’
‘You heard of Halabja, Beck?’
‘Civilians?’
‘Yes, Beck, five thousand of them, at least. Kurdish civilians, poisoned. Dictators don’t distinguish. Al-Qasr is also engaging in DNA research. This is ultra, ultra secret and has never entered the public domain.’
‘Why not, sir?’
‘Think about it, Beck.’
Beck gripped his chin, unable to follow Kellner’s drift.
‘Let’s just say for now, Beck, that it’s been difficult to prove. Are you following me? Now, while all this is goin’ on, Iran is busy on Operation Dawn V. It’s early ’84, like I say. Iran wants to split the Iraqi 3rd and 4th Army Corps near Basra. Iran pipes in about half a million men. The two armies clash. 25,000 killed in less than a week. This happened while the great American public was getting excited over Madonna’s marriage to Sean Penn.’
‘Phew!’
‘Yeah. Now, all this time, our source in Iraq is still meeting al-Qasr socially. They’re still intense young people, keen to convince the other they’re doing the right thing. This would be consistent with what Fless was saying about our informant being a doctor.’
‘Or in the same field as al-Qasr?’
‘Can’t be ruled out. Anyhow, this guy has a conscience. What’s more, another friend of – let’s call him “the doctor” – another friend of the doctor is captured as a deserter. According to the doctor, this man’s the son of a religious figure.’
‘An Imam? A Shia Muslim?’
Kellner shook his head.
‘Sunni?’
‘Nope. A Yezidi.’
‘Sorry, sir. I haven’t had time to go into that.’
‘Start now. This guy deserts from the Iraqi army. He was a forced conscript anyhow. Traditionally, the Yezidis didn’t fight alongside Muslims, for religious reasons. The Yezidi says he deserted in protest at the use of illegal weapons against the Iranians – as if anyone gives a damn. He’s given a choice. He can either be shot on the spot, or offer himself to help the Iraqi medical corps.’
‘Hospital orderly?’
‘He thinks that’s the game. Poor sap’s sent to al-Tuwaitha.’
‘Why haven’t I heard of that?’
‘How the fuck should I know? Al-Tuwaitha is Iraq’s biggest multi-purpose scientific facility. Six kilometres across. Massive earthworks, bunkers and lookout towers protect it. And there’s underground stuff. Nuclear, biological, chemical – you name it. The Iraq Survey Group have had more fun looking through that place than Saddam’s private movie collection.’
‘No way out, presumably, for the doctor’s friend.’
‘By a nasty twist, the Yezidi deserter is sent to the personal laboratory of Dr Sami al-Qasr, Iraq’s scientific superstar, the genetic specialist whose word is law.’
‘I presume the power he’s been given is making up for the lack of a Nobel Prize.’
‘He’s got power over life and death. Something they never thought to give Sir Moses Beerbohm in Cambridge.’
‘And the deserter?’
‘Poor guy’s subjected to dosages of chemicals, biological agents, even radiation. That is, according to our good doctor. Turns out the boy’s got a curious resistance to an unnamed bacillus. Maybe anthrax. Al-Qasr subjects his guinea pig to every kind of test and DNA-mapping procedure. And that doesn’t tell us much, because we don’t know for sure what al-Qasr was capable of in Iraq.’
‘How did the doctor know all this?’
‘Seems in some unguarded moments, al-Qasr boasted to his old friend of breakthroughs that would make Iraq the global centre of microbiological research. Seems the doctor found out his friend was in al-Qasr’s grip, because al-Qasr had started making enquiries about the boy’s background. Drawing up comparative DNA profiles. Yezidi society being fairly tight-knit, this all got back to the doctor.’
‘Our informant is a Yezidi?’
‘That not obvious to you, Agent Beck? You surpr
ise me.’
‘Thank you, sir. I’ll take that as a compliment too.’
Kellner looked at his watch. ‘Oh shit, Beck! I’ve got to chair a Threat Matrix Report meeting with the President in ten. Look, I’ll try to wrap this up, but you’ll have to get on to Leanne Gresham. Now, how can I put it?’
‘Sir, why not just call me tonight?’
‘This ain’t something I’ll put over any phone, Beck. No matter how damn secure.’
‘Any phone, sir?’
Kellner leant forward, face rigid, and looked Beck very hard in the eye. ‘Any fucking phone.’
38
‘You’ll need this, Toby. Just sign here.’
Major Richmond handed Ashe a SIG Sauer 9 mm pistol, small enough for the shoulder holster secreted beneath his jacket.
‘And Toby…’
‘Simon?’
‘Body armour.’
‘Check.’
Richmond sat on his plastic chair and surveyed his tiny, windowless office, covered from floor to ceiling in specialised maps of Iraq. ‘Ready for this, Toby?’
‘I feel a hell of a lot better knowing you’re the driver.’
‘You were lucky to get me. Thank Desk: his word reaches far.’
‘What in hell’s happened to Zappa?’
‘What time did he tell you?’
‘4.40.’
‘And what time is it?’
‘4.39.’
‘Relax, Toby. Zap’s a good man. Besides, he’s had to pick up the interpreter. And that’s not always as simple as it sounds.’
‘Regular interpreter?’
‘We’ve done pre-tests and Zap’s fully checked the source background. We do it all the time – standard procedure and usually reliable.’
‘Usually?’
‘Nothing’s perfect.’
There was a knock on the door.
‘Who is it?’
‘Vinny.’
Richmond turned to Ashe. ‘Time?’
‘4.40.’
The major grinned as he opened the door. ‘Vincent!’
‘Major Richmond, let me take your hand. Allow me to introduce Dr Zaqqarah.’
‘Hello, Safi! Good to see you again.’
The slightly nervous, rotund academic gripped Richmond’s hand. ‘Peace be upon you, Major.’