Mission Compromised (65 page)

Once again, the bank manager, now holding a plate of figs and brown rice and a paper cup of tea, nodded to the two men without saying a word. He pointed to the door and then turned to his two visitors and gave them a thumbs-up. They exited the door through which they had entered and were back on the street in the mid-day heat.

Instead of going back to where they had left Habib and the truck, Samir led Newman back a different way than they had used to go to the bank; they went down a narrow street that was more like an alley. They came to a large, wood-sided, rough-looking shed—Newman could tell by the smells there were animals inside. He waited beside an old delivery truck while Samir went to barter with the owner for two horses they could take to Abu Kamal, across the border in Syria.

Samir had told Newman that he and his father had done this with such frequency in the past that the man would not even question the proposition. He would tell Samir where to leave the horses when they arrived in Abu Kamal across the border in Syria, but of course would insist on payment in advance.

Newman and Samir walked the horses slowly down the street, past the petroleum pumping station, and toward the cluster of crude oil storage tanks for a refinery they could see off in the distance. Just beyond the tanks was a trail that ran parallel to the oil pipeline. They would ride horseback along that pipeline trail until they crossed the border, then head north to Abu Kamal.

They walked for several hundred meters and then prepared to ride into the desert to the west. As they climbed onto their mounts, Samir said, “We must stay away from the pipeline where it crosses the Syrian border. There are patrols out there that may ask more questions than you wish to answer. A few kilometers after we are over the
frontier, we can cut back toward the north and pick up the track for Abu Kamal.”

But as they began to make their way toward the trail, a Toyota four-by-four vehicle painted with the distinctive green of the Amn Al-Khass Interior Police—with five armed and uniformed men inside—raced past them and rounded the corner just behind them. Newman and Samir, riding slowly along the dusty track, looked at each other, then turned in their saddles to watch as the police vehicle stirred up a swirl of dust and sand as it braked to a stop in front of the bank. Four of the uniformed men jumped out of the police vehicle, carrying submachine guns. Two of them went to the back of the bank and two stayed out front. One of the two in front was banging on the door trying to arouse someone.

“I don't like the looks of that,” said Newman. “Let's move a little faster.”

Samir slapped the reins of his horse and turned between some of the small buildings and vendors' tents along the main road, trying not to attract too much attention. Newman was right behind him. There were other horses and camels just ahead; Newman and Samir eased into the crowd of six horses and four camels making the same journey. Samir and the American tagged along with them, just a few meters behind and out of earshot.

“Someone betrayed us,” Newman said. “That was too much of a coincidence.”

“Perhaps you are right, or maybe it was an alarm that Gudyl forgot to turn off when we came. Those men are local Amn Al-Khass. They will not follow across the border,” Samir said.

Leonardo da Vinci Airport

________________________________________

Rome, Italy
Wednesday, 8 March 1995
1120 Hours, Local

 

General Komulakov's baby-blue UN Gulfstream IV with “United Nations” painted above the windows and the olive wreath, globe, and dove logo on the tail had just touched down in Rome for refueling. The Russian general was impatient; when they were two hours out of New York, the pilot had informed him that they would have to make an unscheduled stop at Shannon to fix some problem in the cockpit—but at least they would finally be in Damascus in another few hours.

The plane was still taxiing when the satellite phone mounted beside his bulkhead worktable rang. The Russian picked it up.

“This is Deputy Secretary General Komulakov,” he answered.

“Dimitri, this is Simon Harrod. Engage your EncryptionLok-3.”

Both men entered the pre-arranged code and paused while the sets synchronized themselves. Harrod said, “I have had NSA track the GPS location of the EncryptionLok-3 serial number you gave me—and it tracks with what Newman told me. He said he was in Iraq, near the Syrian border—and the location for his EncryptionLok-3 is right at the border. Here are the GPS grid coordinates.”

Komulakov wrote down the coordinates and said, “Thank you, Simon. Let me see what I can do to find your missing Marine. I'll call you back.”

The Russian disconnected from Harrod and punched the speed dial for the satellite phone being carried by Leonid Dotensk in Baghdad. It answered on the first ring.

“Leonid, this is Dimitri. I have the GPS grid coordinates for the American we are seeking. Write this down.”

Dotensk repeated the coordinates—accurate to within one meter of the place where Newman had made the call to Harrod—back to Komulakov and then said, “I will call Kamil immediately.”

And now the cycle repeated itself. Kamil took the call from Dotensk on his cell phone, in his office at the Amn Al-Khass headquarters on Palestine Street. He, too, recited the GPS coordinates back to ensure accuracy, terminated the call, and walked twenty steps down the hallway to the Special Security Service command center.

After quickly consulting the large map of Iraq mounted on the wall, Kamil picked up the phone and told the operator, “Get me Major Mohammed Samarai, the Amn Al-Khass commander in Khutaylah.” There was a brief delay and then he said, “This is Hussein Kamil. Write down these coordinates.” He repeated the numbers yet again. Then he said, “There is an American at that location. I want you to go there and arrest him. He will have a UN ID with the name Gilbert Duncan. He will also be carrying an Irish passport in that same name. I want him arrested. If he makes an attempt to flee, kill him. And kill anyone who is helping him. Once you have him, or have killed him, call me back.”

Meanwhile, back in Rome, Komulakov wasn't idle. First, he called Harrod back to tell him that he had passed on the GPS coordinates of where Newman's EncryptionLok-3 had been used—and to learn more about what Newman had said.

Convinced by what Harrod told him of the conversation, Komulakov was certain that his suspicions were correct: Newman intended to follow the course of the Euphrates northward toward Turkey, with the goal of getting back to Incirlik. The Russian checked his map and decided that if Newman slipped the noose in Iraq and
made his way into Syria, the general was going to need more help on the ground than a handful of ex-KGB Department V thugs.

His phone rang again. It was Dotensk.

“The American got away,” the arms merchant said. “Kamil's officers missed him literally by minutes, maybe even seconds. The GPS grid coordinates you gave me, I gave to Kamil, and he called his Amn Al-Khass detachment commander right there at the border outpost. He sent his officers to the location, using a GPS. Apparently all his units now have them. The location turned out to be a bank and the bank has a phone. The bank manager was eating his midday meal when Kamil's officers arrived, and he denied seeing anyone matching the American's description. But Kamil checked with his communications security people at Project 858—the Al Hadi unit—and they say someone made an overseas phone call from the bank only minutes before the Amn Al-Khass officers showed up. They have taken the bank manager to their headquarters for questioning.”

Dotensk paused. “You seem to have underestimated this Marine,” he said bluntly to the general.

Komulakov agreed with him. “Yes, I most certainly did. But now I know my quarry, Leonid. He is going to follow the Euphrates up through Syria to Turkey, probably with the goal of getting across the border to Birecik. From there he can catch a plane, train, or bus to Incirlik. He's trying to get back there, because he thinks that's where the rest of the members of his ISEG are and, of course, many other Americans. But I have an idea, my old friend.”

Dotensk asked, “What do you want me to do?”

“Tell Kamil that you must go to Damascus to make arrangements for his defection. I will be there in three hours. If there is not someone to meet you at the airport when you arrive, meet me at the Russian
Embassy or at the offices of the UNHCR. I will be staying at the Intercontinental Hotel. Before you leave Baghdad, I want you to contact Viktor, Pavel, Akhmerov, Borodin, and Veksel, from our days in Department V. They should all be in Sevastopol. Tell each one to meet us in Damascus. Tell them we will pay them five hundred U.S. dollars per day and a ten-thousand-dollar bonus if they succeed. Tell them to leave all their toys at home. I have plenty of weapons, radios, and other equipment with me on the aircraft to outfit twenty men—and this plane has diplomatic immunity so there won't be a problem getting the equipment to Damascus. Tell them I want them there tomorrow at the latest. Pay for their round-trip tickets.”

“Is that all?” said the Ukrainian.

“Yes, Leonid, that is all,” said the Russian. Komulakov hung up the phone.

He turned to Captain Sjogren in the seat nearest the cockpit and said, “Ilsa dear, tell the pilots to hurry up and get me to Damascus. There is a war going on in Northern Iraq and the international community expects me to stop it.”

Next, Komulakov turned to his Dutch military aide and said, “Now, Major Kaartje, draft a message from me to the headquarters of Interpol and tell them to put out an international arrest warrant for a dangerous fugitive. He is suspected of planting the bomb aboard the United Nations Humanitarian Services flight that blew up over Iraq on Monday. All the essential information is right here. Include his photograph, UN Identity Disc data and his Irish Passport information.” The Russian slid a piece of paper across the table to the young officer. At the top was the legend: “Wanted by Interpol for Terrorism: Gilbert M. Duncan.” Below the legend and the other data was a picture of Peter J. Newman.

Abu Kamal, Syria

________________________________________

Wednesday, 8 March 1995
1620 Hours, Local

 

Eli Yusef Habib was sitting in his truck when two men in uniform approached him. They wore the badges of the Syrian Border Patrol and Habib knew that they had a detachment in this little village, just seven kilometers from the frontier with Iraq. They ordered him out of the truck for questioning.

“What are you doing here?” the taller of the two asked him.

“I am waiting for my son. He is to meet me and we will have our evening meal together.”

“Where did you come from?”

“I was in Iraq on business,” Habib replied.

“Were you in Tikrit on Sunday or Monday?” the soldier asked.

Habib replied, truthfully, that he was not. He prayed that the soldier would not ask him if he had been near Bahr Tharthar earlier in the week. They didn't. Instead the soldier asked, “Were you in Khutaylah today, in the early afternoon?”

“Yes,” Habib replied. “I stopped for something to eat, then left to come here.”

“Did you go to the bank while you were there?”

Habib could answer truthfully that he was not at the bank, nor did he go near it.

The other soldier began poking around in the cargo area of the truck. He stuck his rifle in the big cartons of sponges. Habib's heart began to race. He prayed that they would not discover the items that Newman had buried beneath the sponges. They did not.

The tall soldier asked for Habib's identification papers. He reviewed them, nodded, gave them back, and led his companion away

to look elsewhere for the missing American.

Ten minutes later Newman and Samir rode their thirsty horses into the small city. As the two riders had entered the dusty little town, they had seen the soldiers approaching Habib, so they had waited in the shade of some trees about fifty meters away until the uniformed men continued walking down the dusty thoroughfare.

“There may be more of them,” Habib warned as Newman and his son approached. “We should hurry and get to the boat.”

“Yes, I agree,” Samir replied. He turned to Newman and said, “My father will stay here awhile with the horses while we take the truck up the road to where the boat is waiting. One of our friends will meet him here and accompany him up to where we leave the truck and then his friend will take the two horses back to Khutaylah. But by the time they have done all these things, I hope we will be many kilometers up the river.”

Newman looked at Habib. “Then this is where we say ‘good-bye,' I suppose.” He embraced the old man who had saved his life. “I will never forget what you have done for me, my friend. You, Samir, and your family are taking a great risk to help me.” Newman was thinking of the brother-in-law banker, hoping he would not have to suffer for his small part in the escape plan.

“I will be praying for you every day, Peter,” Habib said. “I will pray that you will find your way back to your home and your dear wife… and I will pray that you will become a believer,” Habib said sincerely.

“Thank you… not just for your prayers but for everything. And who knows… you've given me a lot to think about. Perhaps one day I will be as convinced as you are. I hope that one day we'll meet each other again, maybe under better circumstances.

“One thing is certain,” Newman continued. “I'll never forget you. I may have trouble remembering all that happened these past two days… but I'll never forget you. I'll always remember you as the man who saved my life—the man who knows God personally. I'll remember you as ‘The Believer' for as long as I live. Thank you—” Newman choked on his words, and he felt his eyes stinging with tears.

Habib nodded and then turned to pray over his son, asking God to protect him and the American on this journey. Newman went to the back of the truck, pawed beneath the sponges, and retrieved the .38 caliber revolver and his survival equipment. He shoved the gear into the pockets of the linen trousers beneath his thobe. Then, as the sun began to duck behind the western hills, he and Samir climbed into the truck and drove up the road to where they hoped the boat awaited.