The Gilgamesh Conspiracy (11 page)

After an hour two large trucks drew up, and more soldiers climbed out. To Ali’s astonishment, the first thing they did was to issue a bottle of water and a vacuum pack of pitta bread to each man. Then they ordered them to climb into the backs of the trucks and the small convoy set off along the road to Baghdad and eventually pulled to a halt beside the old prison.

Ali stared at the irregular patchwork of paint on the walls of his cell. He assumed that it covered up graffiti that previous occupants had scratched to record their days of imprisonment or invective written against the brutal regime that had locked them up. He wondered if these prisoners had been executed, or died in prison or even eventually released. He thought perhaps he should begin a record of his own confinement. So far he had suffered periodic bouts of fear that his work in the Government and his recent association with Qusay Hussein would be uncovered, and this was overlain by a continuing worry about his family and their possible fate. Before the fall of Baghdad he had been comforted by the foreign news reports that described how Government buildings and other strategic targets had come under pinpoint attack by the Americans satellite-guided missiles, but residential districts had been spared, but it had been weeks since he had seen his wife and son. He had been given regular food, drink and exercise since his arrival; he had got use to the smell of stale urine and disinfectant. Beside anxiety, his other big  problem was boredom.

The man with whom Ali had shared his cell for the last week, Jamal Gharib, was asleep and snoring heavily; Ali felt sorry for his wife. Gharib claimed to have been a senior member of the Baath party in Tikrit and he had bored him with stories of how he had met Saddam Hussein on any number of occasions, and what a magnificent leader he had been. Ali had been forced to listen to his endless speculations as to where the President had disappeared and how soon he was likely to emerge from hiding to lead the resistance against the invading army. 

His train of thought was interrupted by footsteps marching along the corridor; at least three people, he decided. He could tell that one of them was the gaoler, having grown familiar with the rhythmical clinking of the keys attached to his belt as he stalked the corridor outside the cells.

It was with a mixture of apprehension and interest that he realised that they had stopped outside his cell. The clinking of keys was replaced by the rattling clunk as the door locks were released and the big sergeant who held the keys walked in followed by two infantrymen and a scruffy civilian with a beard.

‘You’re Ali Hamsin,’ the man declared.

‘Yes I am,’ Ali replied. ‘You’re Dean Furness.’

‘So you remember me from Frankfurt,’ he said in Arabic. ‘We have some questions for you. Ok, bring him along,’ he ordered the two infantrymen. Ali was seized firmly but not harshly. Jamal Gharib woke up with a start, cried in alarm and held his hands over his face.

‘Shall we cuff him Mr Furness?’ one of them asked. Without waiting for the reply Ali quickly held his wrists together in front of his waist ready for handcuffs. Through observation rather than personal experience he had already learnt that if you tripped and fell, or if you were pushed over with your hands manacled behind your back then you would hit the ground face first.

‘No need,’ said Furness, ‘me and Mr Hamsin are old acquaintances.’ Ali followed Furness out of the cell, casting a quick farewell glance at his cellmate.

CHAPTER SEVEN

14
th
  April 2003

Captain Dan Hall of the US Marine Corps was eight months into a year’s posting in Muscat. The main purpose of his assignment had been to refine his knowledge of desert warfare techniques with the subsequent aim of passing on what he had learned upon his return to Quantico as an instructor. When the invasion of Iraq had been planned he had requested permission to re-join his unit in Kuwait and take part, but to his intense frustration the approval he had been seeking had not been forthcoming and with the news that Tikrit had fallen yesterday it appeared that the campaign would soon be over. Now he faced the prospect of instructing in the subject of desert warfare in which he had possessed a theoretical knowledge to marines who had acquired practical experience. He thought that this would lack credibility and he was no longer looking forward to it. He also knew that as an aspiring officer if he missed a chance of active service it would look poor on his record, despite the fact that it was totally unfair, and his appreciation of his time in Oman was much diminished.

This Monday he was enjoying a game of squash against Richard Davies, Head of Chancery at the UK embassy. Davies was a small, spare man fifteen years older than Dan, who was demonstrating a high level of fitness and speed around the court. The Englishman had been playing squash since he was thirteen years old but Dan had only started the game six months ago, so he did not mind losing. At the end of their forty-five minute session Dan had lost three games, albeit by increasingly smaller margins. They had been forced to abandon the fourth game at seven-all by the arrival of the next players who had booked the court. 

While chatting at the bar over their pre-lunch drinks, Davies lost Hall’s attention when the younger man noticed a tall woman wearing black pants and a green sleeveless top. She wore her long dark hair in a ponytail and a determined expression on her attractive face. He also noticed that she was not suntanned which suggested that she had recently arrived from the UK and he also saw that her arms and shoulders were tautly muscled. Her age was hard to guess, but he decided she was about thirty, the same age as he was. She walked up to the bar behind Davies and asked for a glass of white wine and soda in the clear, decisive tone of someone used to giving instructions. At the sound of her voice Davies glanced round and then turned back to Hall to whom he gave a conspiratorial smile.

‘I was just asking if you thought the Hussein brethren had fled the country or if they were holed up somewhere,’ said Davies.

‘Er…sorry Richard. Yeah, I think they’re probably still there. I don’t think they trusted anyone outside Iraq enough to provide them with a bolthole. I would guess that they’ve gone to ground somewhere in Tikrit, Saddam’s home town. I still hope I’ll be able to get up there soon.’

‘Excuse me are you a journalist too?’ The woman had turned round and was peering over Davies’s shoulder at him. ‘I’m hoping to get permission to go to Baghdad, but I haven’t got any closer than Muscat so far. It’s bloody difficult to get a flight or a hotel room any closer to Iraq at the moment.’

Despite her undoubted physical attractiveness, her forthright attitude and the manner in which she butted into their conversation irritated Hall. ‘No I’m not a journalist,’ he retorted and was preparing to ignore the woman but Davies stood up off his bar stool and turned to include her.

‘Hello I’m Richard Davies; I’m in the embassy, and this is Dan Hall, US Marines,’ he said holding out his hand. She shook it and then held hers out to Dan. She stood the same height as him in her high heeled shoes.

‘Emily Stevens, freelance journalist,’ she said with a smile that lit up her face. ‘Pleased to meet you. So Dan, you think Saddam’s still in Iraq. D’you think they’ll be able to find him soon?’ she asked.

They talked for half an hour and Dan was reluctantly impressed by her depth of knowledge of the war and the political situation in the Middle East and her general politeness. He admitted to himself that he was prejudiced against journalists, and his disdain had been aroused by her comment about the lack of comfortable hotel rooms. Richard suggested that they all have lunch together but as they were reviewing the menus, he found a message on his cell phone. ‘Damn! Something’s come up. I’ll have to go in to the office,’ he declared.

‘Oh, can’t it wait until you’ve had lunch!’ Emily asked.

‘Sorry, duty calls. Nice to have met you Emily. Dan, see you next week, unless you get your marching orders.’

Dan watched him walk off and then smiled at Emily. ‘Have you decided what you’re gonna get?’

‘Sorry, I haven’t really looked at the menu yet. Are you expecting to go to Iraq then?’

‘Well I hope so, but for now Uncle Sam thinks I’m needed here.’ He noticed for the first time that a scar ran down the side of her neck and disappeared under her collar. He stared at it wondering what could have caused such a wound. He unconsciously fingered a scar of his own that ran up the side of his jaw to his right ear from which the lobe was missing.  When she looked up from her menu he looked into her eyes instead which were dark brown and rather lovely he decided.

‘I’ll have a Caprese salad with prawns. What are you going to have?’ she asked. He had no idea, having spent his time admiring her instead of reading the menu.

‘I think I’ll have the same,’ he declared.

During lunch Emily proved to be very knowledgeable about the Gulf States and their political history and she seemed to know more about Muscat than he did, despite having lived there for eight months.

After finishing their lunch he offered to drive her back to her hotel. When they had driven for a mile she asked him to pull off the road for a moment. In his life hitherto, similar requests had led to a variety of social encounters but he suspected that this stop on the Muscat corniche would not lead to anything intimate. He put the transmission into park and turned to face her.

‘Dan, I am a UK Government agent and in need of some assistance. Richard Davies recommended you.’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’ he asked after a moment’s delay to re-organise his thought processes.

‘Ok, I’m not a journalist; I’m in the British equivalent to your CIA, and I’m hoping you’ll give me a hand with something.’

He stared at her for a moment. ‘Hell, you’re serious!’ After a pause for thought he asked ‘Have you got some kind of ID, then?’

‘Of course I have,’ she replied. ‘It shows that I’m a British citizen named Emily Stevens and I have accreditation as a journalist plus letters of recommendation from ‘Time’,’ Newsweek’ and ‘The Economist’. And ‘Hello’ magazine.’

‘But really you’re a member of SIS or something.’

‘Yes. Later, if you want to, you can call on Richard Davies and he’ll give you some form of proof or assurance.’

‘So Richard’s not Head of Chancery?’

‘Of course he is, but he does other stuff too.’

Dan Hall digested this information and then frowned. ‘So what do you know about me, then?’ he asked.

‘I know that you are a US Marine Corps Captain, you have the usual skills that go with that distinguished role and you have an exemplary record.’ She paused. ‘I now would like you to pretend that you have gambling debts and that you have decided to trade arms with a dealer who operates out of Fujairah in order to clear those debts.’

He was somewhat irritated by this, but he was also very curious.

‘What’s the mission?’ he asked

‘Tracking down an arms dealer who is supplying the wrong people.’

‘Can’t you tell me a little more?’

‘I’d rather wait until we set off tomorrow morning,’ Emily replied, ‘assuming you’re prepared to come on board. I’ll brief you on the way to the border, and if you decide you don’t want to do it, we’ll turn round and I’ll bring you back.’ He had been thinking about inviting her out to dinner, but now that hardly seemed appropriate. Perhaps after the operation was complete, he thought to himself.

One thing of which he was sure was that if he started off tomorrow, they would not be turning round so he could scuttle back home. ‘Ok I accept.’

Still somewhat wary that he might be the subject of some journalistic ploy Dan called on Richard Davies after he had dropped her off at her hotel. He described his conversation and said that he had decided to accept whatever role was planned for him by Emily Stevens.

‘Sorry I connived in that set-up yesterday,’ Davies apologised as they sat down with a beer each. ‘Has she explained the operation to you?’ 

‘No, she said that she’d brief me on the way.’

‘Yes perhaps that’s best,’ he agreed. He took a drink and then asked ‘So what did you think of Emily, then?’

‘I thought she must be a bit off the wall. I would never have taken her for a Jasmine Bond character when we first met her in the bar.’

The embassy man was quiet for a moment and Dan thought that his quip might have come over as a slur on British Intelligence and he was rather surprised by Richard’s reply.

‘Yes, well I’ve checked up on her and notwithstanding any impression she might have made upon you, you have to understand that she’s a ruthless executive operations agent. Anyway I expect, I hope, she’ll make you fully aware of the risks. You’ll have to watch out for yourself, because I’m not sure that she will.’

‘Thanks. I’ll be careful,’ Dan replied, somewhat put out by the implication that a serving officer of the US Marines should take care not to get in above his head with a woman, whatever her qualifications.

They set off the following day just before dawn. Emily was driving a four wheel drive Toyota with their personal luggage; a tool box that she described as containing ‘useful stuff’; a set of heavy duty wire cutters; personal weapons and a five foot long metal case containing a British Starstreak surface to air missile. These last items were the reason they were driving away from the city of Muscat towards the mountains inland instead of using the border crossing point on the coast road.

‘There’s a dhow named
Tarrada
which flies the Pakistani flag coming into Fujairah,’ said Emily, which you may or may not know is one of the United Arab Emirates but it’s located just to the north of Oman on the eastern coast of the Arabian Peninsula.’

‘Yeah I know about it in general terms, but I’ve not been there,’ Dan replied. ‘No oil, so it’s not awash with money.’

‘That’s right, but really nice people. Anyway ships putting in there come under less scrutiny than those that sail into the Gulf through the Strait of Hormuz.
Tarrada
has come from the port of Gwadar, in Pakistan close to the border with Iran and it’s picked up a cargo of twenty-five Stinger hand-held surface-to-air missiles.’

‘Where the hell have they come from?’ he asked.

‘One of your country’s less fortunate foreign policy decisions. They were supplied to the Afghan Mujahidin in about 1986. They’ve remained in the mountainside arms cache of a former Mujahidin leader for the last seventeen years so I imagine they fell into a sad state of repair. A Pakistani arms merchant traded them for some serviceable AK47s and shipped them across the border and on to Gwadar. That’s where an ex-army weapons expert has established a clandestine arms repair facility, using parts stolen from your storage facilities on Mazirah Island.’

‘Godammit, those Stingers are still a lethal piece of hardware! Who’s stealing those parts?’

‘That’s what I hope we’ll find out. We want to close down that source and also get hold of the arms trader who set up the deal and find out where he intends to send on the missiles, so we want him alive.’

‘Do we know who he is then?’

‘He’s Barry Mulholland, formerly of the IRA but now in private business. He’s travelling under the name of Francois Duroc, Belgian passport of course.’

‘Why of course?’

‘Oh, several thousand blank Belgian passports were stolen a few years back, and they’re a pain in our collective arse. Mulholland’s been using one to travel on business, but a few weeks back he was spotted by an observant off-duty Special Branch officer leaving Heathrow for Dubai. His name wasn’t on the passenger manifest and to cut a long story short it turns out he’s made many clandestine journeys to the Gulf. Also he seems to have a surprisingly high standard of living for a second hand car dealer.

‘So I want to find out who his contacts are and bring him out. He operates from a hotel in Fujairah. A team from the Sultan’s er…police force has been monitoring his activities but they’ll not become involved in his abduction as they’re under strict orders not to operate outside their own territory. This is what I plan to do…’

Emily explained the operation while Dan inspected various photographs and documents that were assembled into a file folder. When he had absorbed all the details Emily asked him to drive while she frowned over a road map which she compared with a satellite photograph of the area. ‘This is it; turn right here,’ she instructed him.

The tarmac road came to an end after another mile and the Toyota lurched over a rough desert track. Hills rose either side until they were in a wadi where the flaking dried mud surface indicated that rain had fallen sometime last winter. After three kilometres they arrived at a heavy metal link border fence woven with barbed wire, in which was set a gate secured by a chain with a heavy padlock. Dan drove up to it and turned off the engine. Emily clambered out the car and inspected the lock. ‘I’ll see if I can pick it.  It‘ll be much easier than cutting a car-sized hole in the fence.’