The Gilgamesh Conspiracy (8 page)

‘I didn’t open the package. I didn’t read anything.’ Rashid found he was rubbing his fingers together nervously, and made himself stop. ‘I’ve no idea what was in it.’

‘Yes but the American Colonel described what was in it, didn’t he?’

‘No, no, no! He told me to hand it over with the seal intact. That’s what I did. Ask Hakim Mansour!’

For a nightmarish period Khalifa kept asking questions about his story, sometimes asking the same question twice, sometimes asking another before he had finished his previous answer, sometimes accusing him of changing his story. Finally he finished with the question with which he had begun. ‘You found a way to open the package, then you read the contents and managed to re-seal it, didn’t you!’

‘No!’ Rashid shouted. The big man Tariq suddenly got out of his seat. He walked slowly around behind Rashid, who looked up at him and then back at Khalifa.

‘It’s true, I tell you, in God’s name!’ Rashid was frantic.

Rashid watched Rukan Khalifa pick up the jump leads. There was a sliding noise behind him. He turned round and saw Tariq pulling a big vehicle battery across the floor until it was beside his seat. Rashid tried to jump up but Tariq took him in a headlock so that he could scarcely breathe.

‘So now you will tell us what was in the package,’ said Khalifa. Rashid saw him connect the two leads to the terminal and then he touched the live clips together briefly. There was a bright flash and a snapping sound.

‘In the name of God, no!’ Rashid managed to blurt out. ‘I don’t know what was in the package.’ He tried to pull the arm from around his neck. Suddenly the door opened. Hakim Mansour stood in the doorway. ‘What the hell’s going on!’ he roared. ‘Let him go. Now!’

The arm released its grip and Rashid slumped in his seat moaning. Tariq and Rukan backed away and Hakim Mansour helped Rashid to his feet.

‘Come on, boy. Let’s take you back home. There’s been a huge misunderstanding. A very bad mistake. These two will suffer for it.’

‘They were asking me what was in the package I gave you. I told them I had no idea.  I didn’t open it.’ Rashid explained.

‘I know, I know. It’s been a mistake. I’ll take you home.’

Rashid allowed himself to be lead out of the room, down in the elevator and out of the building into the fresh air. Outside in the road Hakim Mansour’s driver held open the door of his car and the two of them climbed into the back seats. Mansour looked at him and patted his forearm.

‘You look a little distraught Rashid. I can’t take you back home until you’ve had a chance to recover; it would give your mother a fright. Let’s go and get a drink.’ He called out an address to his driver and the car set off. Rashid stared out of the window as the street scene passed by, trying to come to terms with his reprieve. Already the experience seemed to be some kind of unreal dream. The car stopped outside a well-known expensive coffee shop much frequented by the well-connected of Baghdad. Mansour lead him inside and waved casually to the proprietor who saluted him respectfully, and then showed them through to a small private room at the back.

The room had four armchairs and little tables with ashtrays. Mansour brought out a pack of Marlboro Lights and offered one to Rashid, who shook his head. The door opened and the proprietor came in with four cans of Heineken beer and two glasses. ‘I thought you could do with a real drink after that experience,’ said Mansour pouring out beer for the two of them. ‘How are you feeling now?’

Rashid drank deeply, savouring the familiar drink. ‘Better now, thank you.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t know why they thought I knew anything.’

‘Well you had already told me you didn’t.’ Hakim Mansour paused. ‘You’re absolutely sure about that, are you? Nothing has jogged your memory at all? Anything that the American Colonel White might have said?’

‘No. Nothing at all,’ Rashid insisted.

‘Ok.’ Mansour slapped his pockets and pulled out a phone. ‘Excuse me a minute. A quick call.’

He left the room and dialled a number. ‘Hello Rukan. I was listening in the whole time, but tell me what you thought of his replies?’

‘He told his story without any hesitations, he answered repeated questions the same but with slight differences so there was no hint of any coaching. I think you can trust in what he says.’

‘Very good, he clearly doesn’t know anything, but thanks for trying.’

‘Perhaps you can explain what it’s all about to me one day,’ Khalifa suggested.

‘Yes, I’ll do that,’ Mansour replied. ‘Until then don’t ask any more questions, eh. Thank you. Goodbye.’

Mansour broke the connection and frowned. Rukan Khalifa was too damned inquisitive. Perhaps it had been a mistake to involve him. Maybe he could be silenced somehow. He went back into the room and smiled at Rashid. ‘Ok. Let’s finish these beers and then I’ll take you home.’

CHAPTER FIVE

19
th
February 2003

‘Ali Hamsin, would you do me the pleasure of visiting me at my house after you have finished your work this evening?’

Ali looked up and saw Hakim Mansour in his office doorway.  He nodded. ‘Of course sir.’

‘Good! I’ll see you later, six o’clock.’ Mansour smiled and closed the door.

Hamsin wondered why Hakim Mansour wanted to see him, but perhaps a visit to his home at least suggested that he was in favour. He was sorry that none of his colleagues were there to witness the invitation, especially one bestowed in person, for in the uncertain world of office politics it was just as well for everyone to know that you were well regarded. Damn! He had invited Professor Khordi for the evening; he would have to postpone his visit until tomorrow. After an apologetic telephone call to his friend he walked quickly through the dark streets and at precisely 6pm he rang the bell on Mansour’s outside gate. He was amazed when his host answered the door himself.

‘It’s the servants’ day off,’ Mansour explained. ‘They all have the same day this week; someone’s engagement party or something. Come in and have a beer.’

He ushered Ali through to his office and sat him down in one of his armchairs. They talked about the weather for a while, and Mansour asked Ali about his family and all his relatives in Baghdad.

‘Now this document your son brought across the border. As you may have guessed it’s the culmination of my discussions with Bruckner and Fielding in Frankfurt.’

‘Yes of course, but I wish Rashid had not been involved,’ Ali replied.

‘I’m sure, but I needed someone I could trust, someone unconnected with the government and he seemed an obvious choice. Do you remember when all this began? When that odious man Rumsfeld came over in 1983, which was when we first met Bruckner. I was a young man of about thirty-five, just promoted to a deputy in the Interior Ministry. You must have been about twenty-five years old then, and Rashid had just been born?’

‘That’s right sir.’ Ali felt a small prickle of anxiety creeping up his spine as he remembered driving Mansour’s limousine to a quiet street and then translating their conversation.

‘Over the years you’ve proved to me that you’re someone who I can trust not to betray a secret; I appreciate that quality in a man.’

‘Thank you,’ Ali replied, trying not to think about the reprisals that would follow a betrayal.

Mansour opened his safe and drew out a document case made of thick leather-like material. There was a zip fastener covered by a flap with a series of holes. Through the holes ran two lengths of multi-stranded wire joined at each end and each join was crimped together and covered by a lump of red wax with a palm tree symbol stamped in it.

‘Although I was responsible for drawing up the agreement, I want to check the contents of the package and have a read through it before handing it over to the boss tomorrow, just to make sure there are no mistakes or surprises. Also it might prove useful in the future if I have my own personal copy.’ He gazed at Ali. ‘Unfortunately I’m under strict instructions not too read it before handing it over.’

Ali stared at the case, fearful of what Mansour was about to do. ‘Surely it is much safer if you follow orders. You’re not going to open it are you? I don’t want to be involved!’

‘Ali you’ve been involved ever since that meeting back in 1983. Now come with me.’

He carried the case through to his garage and checked the front door was locked. Ali watched him pick up some cutters and as close to the seals as possible he severed the wires and unthreaded them. He un-zipped the leather case and pulled out the documents from inside. The top page consisted of a large printed symbol which meant nothing to Ali, and underneath the word GILGAMESH. He put it to one side and looked at the other pages.

‘As I expected, they’re all written in English. As you know I can speak it fairly well, but I can barely read it. I should have taken more trouble I know, but when there are excellent people like you about…well I never saw the need. Come down into the basement.’

Mansour lead him down stairs and unlocked a big wooden trunk and threw back the lid. He grinned at Ali. ‘Another secret I’m happy to say.’

He took out armfuls of cloth, old sheets and towels, until he exposed the lid of an old photocopier. He plugged it in and tried out one of the sheets. The machine groaned and wheezed but after a few seconds it churned out a decent reproduction. Ali passed the pages to him one at a time and collated the copies.

‘There, now back to the kitchen.’

He put the documents back inside the leather case and closed up the zip. He heated the wire up until the wax began to melt and he could pull the seals off. Then he re-joined the wire with the same crimps and replaced the seals, smoothing the wax with a hot knife but leaving the palm tree symbols untouched. Ali looked on in amazement.

‘How do you know how to do that?’ he asked.

‘Skills I learned thirty years ago, in the…the interior ministry, shall we say. There; it might not look precisely the same as before, but only you and I know that.’

Mansour picked up the sheaf of photocopied papers and gazed down at them. ‘So these are the papers that were brought across the border by your son. I would like you to translate them into Arabic for me. Read it to me now and then take it home and write it down. Then bring both versions back to me this evening.’ He handed them over. Ali took his glasses out of his jacket pocket and began to read out in Arabic. His hands began to tremble and he had to put the pages down on a small table. He mopped his brow with a handkerchief as he came to the end and gazed at Mansour.

‘Excellent! Thank you Ali. Now go home and write out that translation. How long do you need? I have to deliver the original to the boss in twenty minutes time, I’ll probably be a couple of hours so can you be back here at eleven?’

Ali nodded nervously. He wasn’t going to say anything at first but then blurted out ‘If this gets into the wrong hands, it will be…death for many people! For me, my family…even you, perhaps even…’

‘I know I know…quiet now Ali; that’s enough.’  

Hakim Mansour watched Hamsin walk down the street, around the corner and out of sight. He had ordered him not to hail a taxi until he was at least a kilometre away from his house, and to observe similar precautions on his return. Then he swallowed a tranquiliser with the last of his beer, picked up the document case and drove his Mercedes to his appointment with Qusay Hussein.

The President’s son was in a good mood. He ushered Mansour into his private sitting room and to show how much he trusted him, he ordered all but two of his bodyguards to leave. Mansour knew that these two were deaf, having been too close to explosions in combat zones and he could speak freely in their presence. Qusay poured out two glasses of Scotch and handed one to Mansour. They exchanged small talk for a while until Qusay drained his glass and put it down on the table and Mansour knew it was time to get down to important matters.

‘Yesterday morning as you instructed, I met the Americans down by the border,’ Mansour announced. ‘The courier handed over the document in this leather folder, which I now present to you. I trust it will meet your requirements.’

He handed over the document case and Qusay Hussein inspected the seals. ‘Who brought the folder over from Saudia?’ he asked.

‘I sent Rukan Khalifa to fetch it over; I was told he is to be trusted, but having met him I cannot vouch for his discretion,’ he replied. ‘His driver was Tariq Kayal.’

Qusay nodded thoughtfully. He pulled a small leather note book out of his pocket, picked up a gold Cross ballpoint pen off the table and wrote the names down. ‘So nobody besides you and he can have held the case then.’

‘No sir,’ Mansour replied.

‘Very good. I am sorry that I had to delay our meeting until this evening. The President insisted on remaining in Tikrit to see some old friends.’ They discussed mutual friends and acquaintances for a while but Mansour could see Qusay Hussein’s glance kept returning to the document case and sure enough after a few minutes his boss said ‘Now I will detain you no further, Hakim. Thank you once again for your good offices. We will meet again tomorrow when I have looked over this.’

After his trusted lieutenant had departed, Qusay Hussein picked up Hakim Mansour’s empty glass and took it and the leather document case into his private study. He inspected the seals and then cut through the wire. Then he called for his personal security chief, Kamal Ahwadi, to see him. He handed him the whisky glass and the top sheet of the document.

‘Kamal, take this piece of paper and see if there are any fingerprints that match those on this glass.’

‘Yes sir.’

When he was alone he read carefully through the documents, nodding in approval from time to time. The document was satisfactory in most respects. Mansour and the Americans had done a good job. After twenty minutes there was a knock on the door and he admitted his security chief. ‘Yes Kamal.’

‘There are matching fingerprints, sir. The man who held the glass also held the paper.’

Qusay Hussein gave an irritated sigh. He had intended that Mansour should see the document tomorrow, but he had disobeyed instructions. Despite his unquestioned loyalty he deserved a good dressing down. ‘Hakim Mansour is driving back to his house. I want him brought back here immediately,’ he ordered.

‘Yes sir.’

‘Oh, Kamal, another matter. There are two people called Rukan Khalifa and Tariq Kayal who work in your department. Do you know who they are?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘They are traitors.’

‘Very good sir, then I’ll take care of them.’

Hakim Mansour was watching a film entitled
The Road to Perdition
which had been released last year. It was an illegal copy but the quality was fairly good and the Arabic subtitles were well written. He heard the outer door alarm go off and he touched the pause button. That must be Ali Hamsin with the completed translation.

He recoiled in consternation when he saw the familiar face of Qusay Hussein’s henchman through the spy hole in the door. It was too late to pretend he was not at home because the security lights had flashed on as he walked into the garden and his car was parked outside. He opened the door. ‘Good evening, Ahwadi. Can I help you?’

‘You’re wanted back by the boss.’

‘What? Now?’

‘Immediately!’

‘Very good. I wonder what he wants. I’ve already seen him this evening. Have you any idea what it’s about?’ He tried to keep the anxiety out of his voice but he was not surprised when Kamal Ahwadi did not reply. ‘I’ll just get my jacket then.’

Hakim Mansour had worked for Qusay Hussein for long enough to have taken certain precautions. He hurried back inside and took off his expensive Swiss watch, and strapped on one with a poison capsule concealed in it. Then he put on his coat and went outside where Kamal politely held open his car door. ‘Are you coming along?’ Mansour asked.

‘No I have another errand sir,’ the security man replied. He watched a worried Hakim Mansour drive away and then he went inside to search his house. The only suspicious object he found was an old photocopier concealed in an ancient wooden trunk. Hakim Mansour should not have a photocopier at home, but Kamal knew that if he reported the find to Qusay Hussein he would have to explain why he had not discovered it the previous occasion when he had snooped around Mansour’s house. A few minutes effort with a hack saw he found in a tool box and he had reduced the photocopier to smaller chunks. He opened the cover of the cess pit in the alley behind the house and dropped the pieces inside, then walked back round the front of the house and locked the front door. He gazed up and down the street before he climbed back into his Mercedes and drove away. If he had looked more carefully he would have seen the frightened figure of Ali Hamsin peering out from between two houses further down the road.